#‘I was running from your light to the shadows of the East’ ‘if I follow you to the river and oh your shadows they run so deep’

[cabeswaterdrowned]

it just clicked for me that the way more fun to miss is impossible woman you were gone is turn it off two against three is a hope like you etc. the river is supposed to be chasing the night at least partly

[starks-hero]

Avert Your Eyes from Your Demise, Though Lovely It May Be

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x human!Reader

Summary: In which giant spiders aren't the only threat Mirkwood has to offer.

Word Count: 4.0k

Warnings: they're high on Mirkwood mist the whole time. Do with that what you will.

Translations: Siúlóirí portaigh - bog walkers (Irish) , amrâlimê - my love (Khuzdul) , lansel - love of all loves (Khuzdul)

a/n: I know movie Thorin is described as 5'2ish but I write him as 4'8 - 4'10 because it's more book accurate and because we should embrace this short king. Anyway, I call this 'the intimacy of going insane with your crush.'

You couldn't shake the unease. Even now, as you sat at the edge of a clearance, bark biting harshly into your back, you could almost feel the forest closing in on you. Shadows scurried above you and the air itself was stale.

Your company of fifteen had quickly fallen to a number of just two, with only yourself and Thorin making it through the mist-clouded trails together. Neither of you were certain what had become of the others and given the eeriness of your surroundings, you didn't want to give it too much thought.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the clearing and the limbs of the trees creaked inward. It was as if the forest was breathing.

“We have to find the others,” you said. Your voice sounded foreign and far off.

Thorin was pacing in front of you, twisting the hilt of his sword in his hand. “They would know well enough not to linger in these woods. We keep heading East.”

“Which way is East?”

“We follow the river.” You didn't miss the beat of uncertainty before Thorin's answer.

You shook your head. “We don't know where it leads.”

“It will lead us away from here which is good enough.”

Almost to emphasize Thorin's point, the surrounding trees creaked and groaned and another shadow scurried overhead. Caution steered your hand to the hilt of your sword and following Thorin's order, you moved on swiftly.

The forest felt too small and too large all at once. Branches knabbed and tore at your clothes and skin, the twisted limbs of rotting trees giving you no option but to duck or crawl beneath their roots. A glance skyward reminded you that this place, in all its foulness, was unending, the tree canopy stretching miles above your head and blackening out the sun's light.

That was if the sun was still up. You'd lost track of the time what seemed like hours ago.

You came to a sudden, harsh stop as your front rather unceremoniously met Thorin's back. With a quiet grunt, you found the reason for stopping was a tangled thicket of twisted branches that now stood before you. The tree, in all its obscure glory, seemed to consume the path entirely, its limbs too thick to cut and trunk too tall to climb. Too tired to think of a solution, you found yourself uncharacteristically willing to give up. Until Thorin shrugged off his furs.

You watched as the grey fabric rolled off his broadened shoulders and revealed his shirt, knotted pattern running up the arms.

“I'll go first,” he took the liberty of explaining as he bunched the furs together and placed them in his pack. “It will be easier for me to get out should I need to.”

You would have liked to argue but Thorin, a regularly stubborn fool, was surprisingly right. He was shorter, his limbs less likely to snag. His dwarven frame would move through the thicket much easier than your own.

He disappeared into the grove, swallowed by bark and darkness and you already found yourself questioning why you let him go alone.

You kicked at the dirt beneath your feet as you waited. Eyes set on the trees, you felt increasingly uneasy. You picked at the leather of your sword sheath. Thorin was a capable warrior and you didn't doubt his ability to defend himself. But something wasn't right, you could feel it, crawling on your skin and putting your hairs on end.

Giving in to impulsiveness, you followed after Thorin.

The branches clawed at your skin and snagged your clothes. You pushed aside what you could, rotting wood giving way easily beneath your palm, but as the many limbs began to swell into trunks, it became increasingly difficult to move. Your chest was pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark. You were never one to fear tight spaces but the sudden inability to take a deep breath came as an unwelcome shock. Just as panic had you reaching for your sword, relief found you in the form of the dwarrow prince.

With renewed determination, you mustered a final push and freed yourself from where you were wedged.

Thorin stood with his back to you, stance stiff. You called his name and he hushed you quickly.

His eyes were set on the tree line ahead of you. His gaze was hard, analytic and you didn't fail to notice how his fingers grazed the hilt of his weapon. He turned to you.

“Do you not hear it?”

“Hear what?”

As if the bugle of battle had been sounded, Thorin's stance shifted and in one swift, fluid movement, he drew his sword. His free hand guided you further behind him. Then, he shot forward, swinging his sword at an invisible target. His expression was one of determination as well as unmistakable fear. Another aimless swing and he turned to you.

“Can you not see it?!” He barked, frustrated at your unwillingness to help.

You raised your head and all but willed yourself to see anything but the winding trails of the forest. But despite how hard you employed your imagination, you saw nothing. Somewhere in the treeline, a bird took flight.

An uncomfortable recollection settled in the forefront of your mind. A shiver ran up your back.

"Thorin," Your hand cautiously fell against his shoulder. He turned to you with fire in his eyes but your expression made him pause. “Gandalf said a dark magic lay over this forest.”

At your words, his defensive stance melted away and defeat took its place. The elvish blade fell from where it was held at his side as he looked around and the fear in his eyes slowly shifted to confusion, then realisation.

“It's toying with our minds?”

You swallowed. The thought made your skin crawl; the idea of the forest as its own conscious entity was a horrifying one. That its magic could sink its claws into your mind and deprive you of your senses, keeping you walking in circles till your feet gave in. The entirety of Mirkwood was one giant spider's web and you hated to think what that made you and Thorin.

“We just need to keep our wits about us and our feet moving forward,” you managed eventually, casting weary glances towards the trees. "Now that we know what's happening we have the upper hand, we stay together, stay vigilant and keep our minds clear."

Thorin felt the sudden need to commend you for your calm demeanor and sudden leadership. But he'd also just attempted to fight a non-existent enemy so he decided saying anything at all was against his better judgment and settled for a curt nod instead.

Your plan fell apart comedically fast. You tried to remain optimistic but as you passed the same tree stump for what must have been the fourth time, you felt as though the forest was laughing at you. Your feet ached as though they'd been walking for days. You could hear each of your breaths echo as they came and the thud of your boots against the earth shook your bones.

The child-like laughter had started not short of an hour ago. Thorin couldn't seem to hear it.

When the rough terrain of rock and dirt softened into the cold, squelching mud of a bog, you both silently agreed that a break was needed. You sat at the end of the wetland, where the moss and reeds sprouted up between damp rocks. The water was gloomy, tinged grey and dark green with a sinister mist resting upon its surface.

The dreariness of the place seemed to seep into your bones.

Thorin sat an arm's length from you, hands braced against his knees as he looked out over the bog with a sullen stare.

“What do you see?” You asked.

“Fire." He said no more and you didn't pry.

In an attempt to ease the aches that had set deep in each of your muscles, you pulled your water canteen from where it hung against your pack. A cool drink of fresh water would be a small but welcome relief that you wouldn't take for granted.

But the liquid was thick and warm as it touched your lips and when you pulled it away it was coloured red. You tossed the canteen away with a grunt of disgust. It unceremoniously met the surface of the water before sinking into the mud.

“We need to leave this place,” you said, hands threading through your hair and pulling at the roots. Thorin didn't argue.

You walked until you felt the leather of your boots threatening to give way. You thought one of the trees you had passed seemed familiar, distinctive enough from the rest of the foliage that it stood out.

“We've been here before,” you said. “We're going round in circles.” You turned to on your heel and found no sign of the dwarf.

“Thorin?”

The eerie silence of the forest echoed back to you.

“Thorin?!”

The feeling of unease returned tenfolds. Shadows crawled above you and the wind quivered through the trees. The mist had worsened, hiding your feet beneath its thickening grey clouds.

But then, like a lifeline being tossed to a drowned sailor at sea, you heard your name. Far off and faint, but your name all the same. Spoken in a voice that flooded you with relief. Calling after him, you followed the resonating sound of his calls until they led you to the point where the water met the soil.

Logic quickly took a back seat as your desperation to find Thorin had you stepping off the path. You sunk immediately, the bog swallowing you up to your knees. You pushed through the thick, sluggish mud, ignoring the burn it caused in the back of your legs. The voice became clearer until his form finally appeared, carved out from the mist.

"Thorin," you greeted him with a smile. But Thorin's expression did not mirror your own. His brows were drawn together and every ounce of air vanished from your lungs when an unsteady hand reached out to cup your cheek.

“I was so worried." Your name fell brokenly from his lips. "I feared I'd lost you.” His hands, shaking and trembling, ran down your arms then back to the swell of your shoulders. His breathing was labored and you could only imagine what Thorin must have witnessed to put the usually stoic king in such a state.

“You're alright? You're not harmed?"

You shook your head and gently grasped Thorin's wrists and he smiled, softer and more sincere than you had ever seen him. The sight made you feel at ease for the first time since stepping foot in the forsaken forest.

"I am glad, Amrâlimê.”

You were not well versed in the culture of dwarves but you were no fool either. You had heard the word spoken among the dwarrow people you'd crossed paths with in the Blue Mountains, noticed the tenderness and sincerity that always encompassed the word, how it was never said with any amount of offhandedness. The word was a confession itself, a confession of the highest kind.

And Thorin had just spoken it to you. As if it were the simplest thing on Earth.

Your confusion must have been evident as Thorin smiled again, the corners of his eyes creasing in amusement.

“You must not look so surprised, my love,” his thumb grazed your jaw. “That I should wish to call you by such a name.”

“What–” You managed in a clumsy attempt to make it known to the dwarf in front of you that you had no idea what was going on. “Thorin.”

The king didn't answer. Rather he kept his eyes fixed on you, coarse fingers working their way from your jaw up to your temple, then brushing just beneath your eye. He touched you as if you were made of something more precious than all the metals held in the great halls of Erebor. And despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind, in that moment you would have been content to stay there.

In the bogs of a cursed forest with your friends lost and your mind bewitched, all so that the king would keep looking at you as he was now.

But your better judgment, (or more likely, the uncomfortable feeling of mud and bog water dampening your clothes,) brought you back to reality. You moved to speak again but Thorin stopped you.

“It's alright, we're safe here, you and I,” he promised. “You needn't think of anything else.”

You tried to ignore how believable his words sounded as you took a step back. Hurt flashed in the dwarf's eyes.

“No, no we need to find the others. The company–”

“–will find their own way,” he calmed you, hand reaching out again to touch your shoulder. It sent a jolt of warmth through you. “You carry so much, endlessly worrying for the well-being of others. But you needn't burden yourself any longer, lansel. You know what it is you desire, what you deserve. So take it.”

You closed your eyes at his words. His hand found the back of your neck and you allowed him to draw you in closer.

“Let it be just us. Stay with me, Amrâlimê. That's all I ask.”

You had never felt such temptation in all your years. Would it truly be so wrong of you? To allow yourself to have this after all you'd persevered. You had long given up trying to convince yourself that you felt something for the dwarven king. That his bravery, stoicism, and unbridled loyalty to his people didn't fascinate you. You had wanted Thorin since not long after the journey's beginning. And now he wanted you too. There was no reason to keep this from yourself, no reason you shouldn't have it.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, was the persistent reminder that something was wrong. A reminder that resurfaced in the form of Bombur's cooking and Bofur's songs and Balin's stories and Bilbo's immeasurable trust in you. Your friends were still lost and that proved enough to bring you back to rationality.

“Thorin,” you started sternly.

“Forget them,” he said, as if he already knew what you were going to say. “Forget everything else. It is just us now. All is as it should be.”

You felt a tinge of discomfort at his words and you took another step back. Thorin would never forsake his kin, not if he was in his right mind. He traced your cheek again and this time you grasped his arm in a strong enough hold to pull it away.

You caught sight of his hand out of the corner of your eye and what you saw made you feel ill. The skin was rotting, bones threatening to tear through their paper-thin bonds. The fabric of Thorin's clothes had vanished and your nails had sunk into the rotting flesh which had begun to fall way in your grip.

You yanked your hand back in disgust, tripping and falling backward into the water at the sight of the creature. A gaping hole sat in the center of its face where you imagined its nose should be and a rigid crack served as its mouth. Green threads of damp mossy hair sprouted from its head and hung in front of the hollow cavities of its eyes.

An Siúlóir Portaigh. A creature you hadn't crossed paths with since you'd last traveled East of Gondor.

A bony hand reached out for you and you shot yourself backward, scrambling to your feet. Thorin's deep voice had been replaced with a low rasping gurgle, the sound growing louder as the creature lunged for you.

You turned and ran.

Thorin's voice had grown hoarse from calling your name.

He had turned away for one moment and you were gone and now as he searched, he feared to think what may have become of you.

His feet sunk into the ground beneath him, water reaching his ankles and soaking through his boots. Reeds sprouted up from the water, the smallest brushing his knees and the tallest towering a foot above his head. With a grunt, he pushed on.

The wind howled as it passed through the hollow chamber of the reeds and Thorin felt the hair on his neck stand up. Then, a shadow passed in front of him. He instinctively reached for his blade. It pushed through the long grass as it approached him but the glint of familiar armor has him dropping his sword.

“Thorin!” You beamed as you reached him. “You're alright. I lost sight of you in the fog.” You grabbed hold of his arms and Thorin was taken back by your sudden brashness. “I'm so glad I found you.”

He watched you for a moment, his joy at finding you unharmed outweighing the odd tinge of suspicion he felt. He cleared his throat and tilted his head forward in a curt nod.

“We must get back to the others.”

He turned to walk on but your arms held him in place.

“You needn't worry, they'll be alright,” you said casually. “As will we.”

Thorin offered a baffled look that doubled as a warning. He was uncertain what had caused your uncharacteristic forwardness and in all honesty, wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

You raised your head skyward and smiled again. With no shortage of confusion, Thorin followed your gaze

The sun had come back up and its light was seeping through the leaves above his head. The forest's canopy turned golden, as if set alight by dragon fire. Thorin's expression softened.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Your hand found his own. “We could stay here, Thorin. You and I. Imagine it.”

Thorin blinked. He could stay here, with you. He could tell you everything he'd been longing to say since the escape from the goblin tunnels and the orc ambush on the cliffside. After all, why shouldn't he? Did he not deserve this after so many hardships? You could truly be together, you could offer him a new start, a new home– Thorin blinked again.

“And what of Erebor?”

You seemed amused by his question. You brushed his braid away from where it hung against his jaw and Thorin surprisingly let it happen.

“Erebor lies half a world away, a buried kingdom of dust and despair in the clutches of a dragon. Is it truly worth so much? Worth so many lives lost,” you asked. “We have everything we need here.”

And Thorin could only think about how right you were; your hands in his, the feel of your fingers brushing his hair, the rising sun and golden leaves– he could want for nothing else.

“Do you not want for this?”

“I–” he tried.

“You have done honorably by your people, Thorin, but you have been selfless for far too long.” He closed his eyes as you spoke. “Choose not what is right by them but by you. No more pain, no more fear.” He could feel your breath against his cheek. “Just us. Stay with me, my love.”

And Thorin decided in that moment that he would.

Your legs ached and your lungs burned.

The bog was becoming harder and harder to navigate but you were yet to find Thorin and you did not plan on stopping till you were certain he was safe.

The water grew shallower and you took it as a blessing. With your lower half free of the mud, you drew your sword. You rounded the trunk of a decaying tree and were met with a horrific sight.

Thorin, with decaying hands grasped round his neck and a deformed maw nearing his face. Thorin stood in a trance, eyes glossed over and body stiff. The siúlóir's mouth widened, rotting skin tearing as it did. Its nails dug into the side of Thorin's neck, harsh enough to draw blood. Still, he didn't move.

You acted on impulse. With a quick lunge forward, you drove your sword through the creatures back, twisting it twice before pushing it deeper.

Its screech was inhumane. It grasped at its wounds, its guttural yowls putting your hairs on end. You ran it through again. The siúlóir went quiet and Thorin screamed out.

“No!” His voice was distraught, his hands grasping at the creature as it slumped to the ground. “No–!”

“Thorin!” You grabbed his shoulder and roughly yanked him back. He raised his head and looked at you as though he'd seen a ghost. “It's alright– it's alright, it's me.”

His gaze fell back to the creature at your feet and given the twist of horror and disgust in his expression you figured he was now seeing it in its true form.

“Siúlóirí portaigh,” you muttered under your breath. “Bog walkers.”

Thorin blinked before taking in his surroundings with frantic eyes. He regarded you with a cautionary look. He said your name and when you nodded, you saw his stance relax slightly. His fear turned to confusion. “What–”

“They were going to drown us,” you answered plainly. You nudged the creature's shoulder with your heel and watched it sink a few inches into the water. “We need to go, this place will be crawling with them.”

Thorin wanted to question how you knew so much about such monsters but given how desperately you wanted to leave their hunting ground, he prioritized.

He offered one last glance at the creature, body now mostly submerged in the sullen water. He shuddered at how well the creature had worn your face, how much its voice had mimicked your own. How easily fooled he'd been.

He silently followed after you.

You walked until the mud on your clothes had hardened and the silk webs coating the trees had all but vanished. The leaf canopy above you had thinned out and the surrounding forest was now warm with the sun's light. The moment you heard a nearby bird song, you knew the dangers of Mirkwood had passed.

Thorin rested against the trunk of a sapling. His gaze was focused on something over your shoulder but given the blankness of his stare, you knew he wasn't looking at anything at all. You took a seat at his side and began to tend to his wound.

A nasty gash ran from the back of his neck to just below his throat. You worked silently. Thorin didn't even seem to notice until you applied a fraction too much pressure and with a sharp intake of breath, he turned to you.

“Sorry.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Thorin spoke.

“What did you see?” he asked you. “That creature, it toyed with my mind, showed me things I longed for that I hadn't even admitted to myself. So what did it show you?”

“Nothing.” The lie came easy. “Nothing of worth. I've dealt with siúlóirí before, they feed you lies, draw you in and then drown you before you even realise you're in danger. Whatever you seen, I wouldn't linger on it.”

Thorin seemed almost saddened by your answer. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, he gently brushed your hand away and got to his feet.

“We keep heading East.” The usual stoicism had returned to his voice. “Dwalin would know to do the same. If we do not regroup with the company in a day's time we head back the way we came and search.”

You nodded and got to your feet like a soldier following orders.

And as you fell into step beside the dwarf you thought maybe it would be best to take your own advice. To pass what you'd seen off as baseless lies not worth thinking about. But the feel of Thorin's shoulders brushing your arm reminded you that would be no easy task.

You entered Mirkwood wondering if what you felt for the dwarven king was more than just fondness. Now you were certain.

quick authors note: I invented the siúlóirí an portaigh for this fic and the name translates to ‘bog walkers/walkers of the bog’ in Irish. It was pretty fun combining two of my interests, writing and folklore, to create my own mythological creature :)

[luffy-luvr]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐌𝐫. 𝟕

❛ YOU CAN COME OUT NOW. ❜

( Episode 1 : ROMANCE DAWN )

[ 🏴‍☠️🗡️ ]

SIXIS ISLAND

On an island in the East Blue came along two siblings, both sharing the same shade of green hair, walking side by side. The older brother had three swords on one hip while the younger sister had two swords, one on each hip.

Walking until they've reached the end of the trail. Kneeling down, Momo passed a match box to her brother, lighting up two candles. One for their childhood friend, Kuina. The other for the person following them.

"You can come out now." Zoro said in a low voice. A mysterious man with a '7' on his right face cheek and a bad haircut. "People often visit shrines to light candles for those they've lost." the man said as he came out from the shadows. "Who are yours for?" he questioned.

Momo knew Kuina was a special person to Zoro. She trained with him for a long time. Momo didn't really like Kuina, she considered her as a 'brother stealer'. "This one is for someone we knew a long time ago." Zoro responded for both of us in a dry tone.

"And the other?" the unknown man questioned again. "You've been following us for three days." Zoro stood up to his side, with his hands on the kashira of his swords. "What do you want?" he demanded. "You two may call me Mr. 7. I represent an organization known as Baroque Works." the man introduces himself. Mr 7 pulls out two cards both having the same design, extending his arm. "We are interested in your twos unique sets of skills, pirates hunters Roronoa Zoro and Roronoa Momo."

Now facing Mr. 7 Zoro questions the man one more time " What are you? Some band of assassins?" Mr 7 replies with a smirk plastered on his face "We are much, much more. You should know it's a high honor to be asked to join our ranks." Zoro turned around to see Momo still kneeled down praying to the candle. "We kind of got our own thing going on"

Mr 7 shook his head still trying to convince the siblings to join, "Membership would make you siblings more invincible, more feared."

Zoro had his head down, not wanting to deal with him any longer, "Does it come with a free face tattoo? My favorite is number 1." he said sticking his middle finger up. He squatted down next to Momo with one hand brushing through her hair. Mr 7 didn't seem to take 'no' for an answer and kept bothering them. "To turn down Baroque Works is to forfeit your life."

Hearing that made Momo reach for her sword, Zoro reached out to put a hand on her hand meaning, 'Don't worry about it'. "If they were that serious, they should've sent someone better than Number 7." Zoro retorted.

Hearing that made Mr. 7 furious, he unleashed his swords ready to come at Zoro, he threw his swords in attempt to attack Zoro, of course he blocked it. Mr. 7 yelled as he was pushed back.

Zoro pushed one of his swords back into his sheath as Mr. 7 came running towards him, blocking his every attack until he unleashed two of his three swords attacking Mr. 7. His swords managed to swiftly blow out every other candle except Kuina's and Mr. 7's. The man with a weird haircut looked around seeing the candles out, with a scowl on his face, he charged up to Zoro, however he still blocked his attacks sending Mr. 7 back where he started.

One last time Mr. 7 swinged at Zoro with all his might, leaving his stomach as an open target leading him to be cut in half. Zoro closed his eyes and sighed, knowing he was going to be one to clean up this mess.

"You know, you could've just stabbed him. So you didn't make a mess." Momo sighed, standing up and facing the last two candles reaching for her sword, swinging it making the flaming candle go out.

•••

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 29: I Will Take You Home

~2270 words

CW: discussion of suicide (but we know it’s actually the) aftermath of attempted murder by drugging, sedation, medical setting

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

“Captain Isles!”

Matthew’s voice boomed through the parking garage. He’d been loitering by Isles’ white Lincoln Aviator for the last hour, waiting for the Captain to get out of work.

“Beck.” Isles slowed his approach, stopping a few yards away from Matthew.

“I want to see Simon,” Matthew demanded, “I hear you’re the man to talk to.”

Isles nodded slowly.

“He wants to see you too.”

This response caught Matthew off guard.

“You’ll let me?”

“You, and getting out, were all he would ever ask about, before…” He trailed off, looking away.

“How is he?” Matthew asked, his voice a little softer.

“Not good,” Isles admitted, “They keep him pretty sedated for his own safety, and it’s… not pretty.”

“When can I see him?”

Isles met his gaze, solemn and steady.

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

~~~

Matthew walked quickly enough to make the visitor’s tag bounce where it was clipped to the collar of his light spring jacket. Isles strode alongside him, grim and quiet, as they were led by an orderly through twisting hallways and multiple security doors. The building had a hint of dinginess and a heavy silence aside from their footsteps that made Matthew nervous.

“How much research did you do on this place before you put him here?” Matthew asked.

“It’s the only facility on the east coast that’s impervious to vampires,” Isles replied, “That was all that mattered to me. At the time.”

Matthew believed in the level of security. They had passed armed guards with dogs outside, and they each had to do a blood test at reception before being let through a pair of heavy gates.

It all hardly mattered if someone was in more danger from themselves than a vampire.

They rounded a corner and a gray-haired man in a doctor’s coat fell into step with them.

“Captain Isles, I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” The doctor was obviously trying to sound pleased to see Isles, and was failing miserably. “Who’s your friend?”

Isles slowed his pace considerably.

“Dr Deckard, this is… Matthew Beck.”

The doctor stopped short.

“Captain, I thought we were in agreement that Beck’s presence would be dangerous for Simon.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Isles said flatly.

Matthew watched the exchange, a little offended that neither were directly acknowledging him.

“Simon is far too vulnerable for this right now, this is something I’d need weeks to prepare him for, at the very least.” Dr Deckard was arguing, but shrinking back at the same time, fiddling with his tie and running a hand through his thin hair. In contrast, Isles stood tall and radiated authority.

“I think I get the final say here,” the Captain said.

“Y-yes, of course.” Dr Deckard finally cast Matthew a brief glance, then turned on his heel to lead them onwards. “This way, gentlemen.”

Simon’s room was only a few doors further; Dr Deckard unlocked it with a keycard and held the door for Isles and Matthew. Matthew’s heart pounded as he followed the Captain in. Four months. He hadn’t seen Simon in four months, and now they were going to be in the same room together. Would he panic? Would Simon panic? Or would it be joyful? Would they kiss? Would Simon reject him? Would -

Simon lay on his back in the bed, his head turned towards them and his eyes closed. His expression was soft, peaceful, and his face was full and round like it should be, not the gaunt shadowy thing Matthew had seen last. His wrists were restrained to the bed frame, but the straps were thickly padded and not too tight.

He looked okay. Not horrible, not perfect, but safe. Alive.

The only thing that caught Matthew off guard was Simon’s hair: it had been shaved recently, and was currently a shadow of peach fuzz.

“His hair, what-” he mumbled, unable to look away from Simon’s unconscious form.

“After he took the pills, he fell and hit his head rather badly. We needed his hair out of the way to stitch it up.” Dr Decker explained, watching Matthew carefully.

“Pills?” A lump formed in Matthew’s throat.

“Yes. He stole them from the pharmacy.”

Matthew took a shuddering breath.

“Is he - will he wake up? Can I talk to him?”

“He’ll be foggy, but yes. But you should know,” Dr Deckard warned, “He’s been quite the chronic liar during his stay here. I wouldn’t put much stock in anything he says, particularly under the effects of the sedative.”

Simon: a liar, a thief, and suicidal. Matthew couldn’t wrap his head around it. He pulled up a chair and sat as close as he could to Simon’s bedside, right in front of Simon’s face. Isles and the doctor hung back, observing.

“Simon?” Matthew reached over and took Simon’s hand in his. It was limp and cool. “Simon, I’m here.” Simon’s fingers twitched and Matthew gave them a gentle squeeze. Simon’s eyelids fluttered and Matthew’s heart soared.

“There you are, there you are.”

Simon’s eyes opened, and met Matthew’s.

Nothing.

Simon stared blankly, with no recognition. Matthew’s guts twisted and plunged with horror, and he sat frozen for a long second. Then three. Then five.

Then Simon’s eyes widened.

“Mm’thew,” he whispered.

Matthew sobbed with relief.

“Yeah, I’m here, I’m here!”

“Matthew,” Simon rasped, his eyes filling with tears, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

I’m sorry, Matthew, I didn’t mean it, please don’t be mad -

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Matthew soothed, suppressing the memory, “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” He twisted in his seat to glare at Isles.

“We’re taking him home. Today.”

Isles shook his head.

“There are still vampires-”

“Fuck the list!” Matthew snapped, and Simon’s fingers flinched within his, “This place is going to kill him before any of them do.”

“Simon is in a very fragile state at the moment,” Dr Deckard cut in, “I would not recommend moving him.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Simon was still whispering apologies.

Isles looked back and forth between them all, conflicted.

“Cap, you know it’s the right thing to do.”

Isles’ gaze settled on Simon, his brow heavy. He took a short breath.

“Fine. But he stays with me.”

That was good enough for Matthew. He turned back to Simon.

“You hear that? You’re…” But then he heard what Simon was saying.

“I cheated on you, I’m so sorry Matthew, I cheated on you, I had to…”

“Woah, hey,” Matthew reached out to caress Simon’s head with his free hand, “What do you mean, what happened?”

“With, with an orderly, Matthew, I had to,” mumbled Simon. Matthew’s head snapped back around to glare at Dr Deckard.

“What the hell is he talking about?”

“Like I said,” Dr Deckard shrugged innocently, “He lies, for attention, to try and get special treatment. What he’s saying is impossible, the whole facility is covered in cameras that are observed at all times, and all our staff and faculty are thoroughly vetted. I’m sorry, but he’s lying to you.”

“Why would he tell me a lie that would upset me?”

“More likely, he’s trying to make me and the employees here look bad.” the doctor smiled sadly. “It’s not uncommon for patients like him to have a victim complex. You coming to rescue him and infantilize him is exactly what he wants. I strongly recommend against removing him from my care at this time.”

“Isles?” Matthew looked to the Captain. Isles turned to Dr Deckard.

“Please bring me whatever paperwork I need to have him released,” he requested.

“Alright, but you’re just going to bring him back in a week or so when you realize you can’t handle him, and I’ll have to start back at square one.”

“Just do it. Please.”

Dr Deckard left in a huff. Matthew ignored him, turning his attention back to Simon. Simon had fallen back asleep, tears dried on his face, so Matthew just gently stroked his knuckles and his brow and waited. Eventually a nurse arrived with a clipboard full of paperwork for Isles. After that, everything happened rather quickly. A wheelchair was brought, and a pair of orderlies unstrapped Simon from the bed and moved him to the chair. Matthew winced when he saw the back of Simon’s head when it lolled forward; there was a line of thick stitches. Then Simon lifted his head, and mumbled incoherent questions as they wheeled him out of the building. Matthew stuck right by him, speaking soothing words and touching his shoulder. It felt like they were doing something illegal, somehow, as they ushered him quickly out of the maw of the fortress and to the sunny parking lot. Matthew shooed the orderlies away and lifted Simon into Isles’ car himself, and got in the back seat with him. Isles got into the driver’s seat, depositing a plastic bag full of Simon’s winter clothes from four months ago into the passenger seat. Matthew buckled Simon in then laid him down with his head on Matthew’s thigh. Simon's eyes blinked open, glassy and soft.

“Are we going home?” he murmured.

Matthew wondered what ‘home’ he was imagining - the VIU? Their Boston studio? Maybe even Lara’s house, or his childhood home.

“You’re going to stay with Isles for a while,” Matthew said as the car started to move, “You’re never going back to Summerwhite, okay?”

Simon’s foggy gaze drifted across Matthew’s face.

“Which one are you?” he mumbled, his brows pinching slightly.

“I…” Matthew glanced up at Isles - the captain was focused on the road. “It’s me, Simon. I’m human, it’s me.”

“Oh… Good.” But Simon didn’t sound relieved. Mildly disturbed, Matthew stroked Simon’s face in what he hoped was a calming way. Simon relaxed a little, his forehead softening and his eyes fluttering closed.

Fort Summerwhite was an hour and a half west of DC, and they made good time to Isles’ house. The two bedroom blue craftsman was tiny, but having a detached home with its own backyard this close to the capitol was a massive luxury. Matthew scooped Simon up and carried him up the steps to the wide porch bridal style while Isles unlocked the door.

“Put him in my room for now, in the back to the right,” Isles said, holding open the door, “It’ll take me a minute to set up the pull-out.”

Matthew made his way to Isles’ bedroom, his arms straining under Simon’s weight. His healthy weight, he reminded himself, not like -

Pressing his fingers into the indents of ribs. Pinching skin just to watch how long it took the color to come back.

Matthew laid Simon down on Isle’s bed and jumped back like he’d been burned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Not now. Get it together.

He double checked that Simon was lying comfortably and hurried back out of the bedroom. He took a moment to glance around the house; he’d never been there before. It smacked of someone who wanted to look like marriage material, but hadn’t quite stuck the landing. It was a little over decorated here, a little under decorated there. Lots of beiges and blues and Target throw pillows. He found Isles in the second bedroom that he had outfitted as an office, unfolding a small couch out into a bed. Matthew wordlessly assisted, catching the extension and lowering it down.

“Now I just need to remember where I stashed the sheets for this thing,” Isles muttered.

“Do you have enough food for two people? If you don’t mind me borrowing your car, I could make a grocery run,” Matthew offered, eager to help in any way he could think of.

“Actually, Beck… Matthew, I…” Isles looked at him, searching for the words. Matthew’s heart sank.

“No.”

“Matthew, I’m going to follow Dr Deckard’s recommendation. I don’t think you should be around Simon.”

“I’m not a vampire anymore! I pose no threat, none at all.”

“You still pose a threat to his mental health,” Isles argued, “I don’t want you playing with his emotions.”

“Playing with his emotions? Cap, you really think I would do that?” Matthew asked, incredulous. “I love him, I need to be here for him!”

Isles paused, frowning - but didn’t budge.

“No. You need to call someone to come pick you up, I don’t want you here when he comes to.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Matthew demanded, raising his voice. “Shouldn’t Simon get a say in this?”

“Yes, I’m serious!” Isles’ voice was immediately louder than his, “And Simon is under my custody, it’s my responsibility to keep him safe.”

“You really think I’m that dangerous?”

“Yes!” Isles hollered, “Now get out of my house before I have you arrested for trespassing!”

Matthew froze. He was still on probation from the rehab facility, any trouble with the law and he would go right back. No phone calls. No dad. And an even slimmer chance of getting to see Simon again.

“What even was this, then?” he asked, his voice wobbling, “Why even let me come with you?”

Isles glowered at him.

“It was a mistake. He’s better off without you.”

“No, I…”

“He’s better off. Without you.”

Letting Isles see him cry would be beyond humiliating, so Matthew turned and fled. He pulled his phone out of his pocket - an old smartphone with a cracked screen that his dad had enough foresight to resurrect and set up for him before he got out - and dialed Gina.

“Yellow?”

“I’m at Isles’, can you come pick me up?” Matthew sobbed.

“I can come right now. What happened?”

“I can’t, I can’t, please, just… Get here soon.”

~~~

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper

[siribear]

in the dark | there are no strangers |

just close your eyes and sleep. it's that easy. you've done it so many times before. just... please, maker just sleep.

amell lies on her back, alone, in her tent. blonde hair undone and spilling over the edge of her bedroll like ink. like blood.

no, not like blood. like - good things. puddles of water after a hot bath. petals scattered after a gust of wind.

she presses the heel of her palm against her eyes until she sees stars. count these, she tells herself. count them until you fall asleep -

the stars wink out, one by one, and open again as thousands of eyes. in them, she sees loghain, the fear etched into his face until the avatar of nightmare swallows him whole.

amell wakes with a gasp, kicking wildly to free herself from the blankets tangled around her legs. sweat sticks her clothes against her skin, tight and oppressive, so she unties the laces of her tent flap and welcomes in even the softest breeze.

outside, an inquisition soldier patrols the edge of camp. the only sound is the cricket song and bull snoring in a tent across the way. still dark, the torch light doesn't pierce the darkness surrounding camp. the patrolling soldier gives her a polite nod when he notices her, and she returns it before shuttering herself away once more.

this can't keep on, she thinks. maybe - maybe she can sleep with here eyes open? once upon a time, one of her fellow apprentices tried such a thing. eyes wide open, a book open to a page important to their alchemy exam. for a week, he could only speak in sentences on the page. he failed the exam.

amell sits cross legged in the middle of her tent and sobs.

-

amell is the wax of a candle burning at both ends. she is the cliffs of the stormcoast, and every second a wave wearing her away.

nanette departs from them with another group of inquisition soldiers that will take her to orlais. a family member will take her in, and vivienne has pulled one of her many strings to secure the girl a tutor for her own safety.

but they are still days away from the safety of skyhold, and the afternoon they make their way east, they're ambushed by more red templars.

when a smite hits her mid-spell and severs her connection with the fade, her first thought is relief. it's so quiet, even with dorian's spellfire and the thunk of varric's crossbow beside her.

'to your feet, now,' dorian says, singsong, and pushes a lyrium potion into her hands. it's with a great reluctance that she downs it and rejoins the fray.

-

dinner finished, the campfire starts to burn low. bull bests dorian at another game of chess, varric scribbles into his journal more chapters of a future work, and cullen sharpens his sword.

and no matter how long she stares at the cracking fire, it can't burn the images from her head. she pulls her legs to her chest and buries her head against her knees. she has to face it or it won't go away. nightmare will hunt her until she's a husk and yearning for tranquility.

if the anchor will even allow her that.

deep breath. if she could just get back to that silence -

amell jerks her head up as if struck and stares at cullen across the way.

'fall asleep over there, cousin?'

no. no, because she can't sleep. 'no,' she answers, and clears her throat when her voice comes out too rough. even cullen looks up at her now. 'no, i'm... fine. cu - commander, can i borrow you for a moment?'

bull chuckles, 'just a moment?' and he and dorian go back to their game. varric waits and watches until cullen nods stiffly, sheathing his sword on his belt, then the storyteller continues his writing.

cullen follows her just outside camp, not quite in the shadows, but the flickering light turn his hair gold. amell wants to run her hands through it again, feel him lean into her touch.

they haven't been this close since that moment in chateau d'onterre.

'you... needed something from me, inquisitor?'

amell blinks. 'yes. i - you can still use some of your templar talents, can't you? alistair could, even though he wasn't... you know.'

cullen shifts from foot to foot. 'i can. why?'

she sighs with relief. 'oh, good. i didn't know... what i was going to do, if you couldn't.'

'inquisitor?'

she can't help her grin. she should have asked him much sooner! 'i want - i need you to smite me.'

'wh-what?' cullen sputters, taking a step back when she moves in closer. 'you... why?'

she frowns. hangs her head. 'because i can't... sleep. i can't close my eyes without seeing that - that demon at adamant and - ' she reaches out and grabs this sleeve. 'i thought that if you cut me off from the fade, i'd be able to sleep... just for a little bit.'

'you haven't been sleeping since adamant?'

amell shakes her head. she feels pitiful. unbecoming of the head of the inquisition. 'it's easier at skyhold. the veil is stronger there, but lately...'

cullen, i'm scared. she bites her lip. she releases his sleeve and takes a step back. 'i'm sorry. i shouldn't have - this was a silly and selfish request. i'll go... have dorian make me a potion or something.'

that's what she should have done first. dreamless sleep. the nightmare can't hunt her if she doesn't dream at all. her mind whirs with what ifs just from that. what if she dreams and can't wake herself up? what if she can't fight it off alone and she gets possessed and she hurts her friends -

a warm hand rests between her shoulder blades. 'come on.'

'what?'

he steers her back to camp. 'i'll watch over you.'

this grin is twisted, the shadows cast by the fire sharp and unflattering. 'like old times?'

she feels his sigh through the hand still on her back.

'oh? not taking first watch tonight then, annie?' dorian chuckles when she ducks into her tent, cullen in tow. he ties the flaps together and it only barely keeps out the echo of dorian's laughter.

and then she's in her tent, alone, with cullen. it shouldn't be so strange. he's shared it with her before, knows where she keeps her books and supplies and easily navigates it in the dark. he unclasps the belt holding his sword and lays it next to him as he sits next to her bedroll.

this was, perhaps, a bad idea. the tent always felt too big for just herself, but with the two of them here, now, it feels much too small. and maybe she's the only one that feels that way because cullen looks up at her expectantly and says, 'aren't you tired?'

yes. maker, yes. this cullen could be a demon and she wouldn't care. amell doffs her cloak and her boots and crawls into her bedroll, too tired and weary to even think of seducing him in this moment no matter how much dorian jeers just outside.

on her back, she stares up at the stars gleaming through the canopy. she's safe. she is safe. in seconds, her eyelids grow heavy, and then she is gone.

-

'it's okay,' cullen tells her, one hand on her shoulder, and the other clasped in hers. 'it's okay,' he says, again and again, soft and softer until her tears stop.

'how long?' she croaks.

the fire outside has burned down to embers, and cullen is more shadow than light. 'about an hour.'

'i don't know how long i can keep this up,' she admits. 'i think this is worse than the first time i used blood magic. or after redcliffe.' that future haunted her for days, but at least she could sleep.

'here,' he says and lays her back down. and then he surprises her by kicking off his boots and climbing into the bedroll next to her. 'come here.'

hesitantly she shifts closer and pillows her head on his bicep. she places a hand on his chest and is rewarded when he exhales and rests a hand on her hip. a shiver runs up her spine that has nothing to do with the cold. though his breathing is even, she can feel his heart beating fast under her fingertips.

'cullen - '

'why do you think the demon is hunting you?'

she flinches. 'i don't know. because we got away, maybe. it was working for corypheus, so.'

cullen shifts. 'i used to have nightmares when i was a child.' his voice rumbles in her ear. the hand on her hip moves up to card through her hair. 'dragons. darkspawn. monsters in the middle of the night come to take my parents and siblings away. i don't think i slept right for a week. i would stand at the door to our bedrooms with a stick i had found, ready to fight off anything that came through.

'mia noticed something wasn't right when i smashed my thumb in with a hammer.' he winces at the memory. 'when i told her, she introduced me to her... erm, magic bear.'

amell laughs. 'magic bear?'

'she said if i told it about my nightmares and my fears before bed, it would keep our family safe from them.'

'that sounds nice. i wish i had that bear.'

'mm. it helped, also, after... after the tower fell, and you and elissa saved us. i didn't have the bear, obviously, but i had my sword. greagoir didn't want us to be unarmed,' he explains. 'so i would... admit what i was scared of, more demons or - blood mages.' amell hums low, understanding. 'and once i knew what scared me, i knew i could fight it.'

'i see.'

'what does the demon want from you?'

'fear.' she takes a deep breath. 'in the fade there were tombstones, for each of us that fell through. the epitaphs were our worst fears. they weren't something silly like spiders or ghosts or darkspawn. they were very personal.'

madness. temptation. became his parents.

'abandonment was mine,' she answers to a question unasked. she could feel his inhale just before. her voice is flat as she continues, 'i was afraid that if everyone found out what i was, you would all leave.

'and now that that's come to pass, it wants something else.'

'i - '

'it's fine.' still, she clenches her fist in his shirt. 'i'm scared that i'll fall, and i won't be able to resist it. i'm scared that i'll hurt you.'

his hand continues combing through her hair. her eyes grow heavy again. 'take me into your dream.'

'i'm sorry?'

'as you did with alistair and elissa. bring me with you.'

she's too tired to fight him, and the thought of having him there with her is as comforting as being in his arms again. she'll bring that warmth with her, wear it as armor, and shield herself from nightmare forever.

-

'is this - ?'

cullen walks the barren landscape with his sword drawn. amell stands very, very still.

'this is where we fought the nightmare.' down the path behind her are the tombstones. 'and there is where we lost loghain.'

the steep rock that led them toward the exiting rift is just as they last saw it, with the large gap that separated them. if she thinks too hard she can see the blood dripping on the fade stones. if she listens she can hear the screams. so she doesn't.

YOU HAVE COME.

nightmare's voice is a bellowing roar in her ears that threatens to burst her beating heart.

cullen steps in front of her. 'there is nothing here for you, demon.'

OH? nightmare inches closer. THE LYRIUM WILL STRIP YOU DOWN TO YOUR BONES, UNTIL YOU ARE A PALE SHADOW OF WHAT YOU ONCE WERE. YOU WILL FORGET HER.

YOU HAVE ALREADY DONE IT ONCE, HAVE YOU NOT?

cullen's next exhale is unsteady. amell shifts one foot back.

RUNNING AGAIN. ALWAYS RUNNING.

nightmare lifts itself to its full height, high above them.

NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO, I WILL FIND YOU. I WILL WALK YOUR BROKEN BODY TO CORYPHEUS.

amell pushes cullen behind her and thrusts the anchor forward. 'come and catch me then.'

nightmare lunges -

only to be met with a solid, stone wall. nightmare's roars fade into the distance, but the baubles on a bookshelf against the wall don't so much as rattle.

'inquisitor?' amell turns around to see cullen taking in the room. 'why here?'

it's his office. sunlight streams in through the slats and the silly hole in the ceiling he refuses to let the carpenters fix. the desk that held together remarkably well is clear of its usual debris. the room smells like sword polish and parchment and a soothing cold wind.

'i just thought of someplace safe.'

cullen runs a hand along the edge of the desk. 'hm.'

she swallows, leaning against the bookshelf. you will forget her. 'i'm sorry. for bringing you there.'

he shakes his head and lifts his gaze to hers. 'you stood up to it.'

'i was particularly motivated this time.'

cullen crosses the distance between them, one hand on the bookshelf beside her, the other at his side. more enough room for her to move away despite him hovering over her. his brow furrows. 'it was right, you know.' she looks into his eyes, haunted but clear.

'you would think so,' she says. 'it's your fear. that doesn't make it right or true.' she brings her hands to the sides of his face, smooths out his frown with her thumbs. 'you're more than the lyrium. you knew it would be a difficult road, but you chose to walk it anyway.

and no matter what we are to each other, whether you remember me or not, i will walk it with you.'

his jaw clenches under her hands, and that, too, she loosens with a touch. he moves closer to her. her fingers brush against his lips. he dips his head closer to hers.

'cullen...'

a knock on the door. she feels his incredulous laugh breeze across her cheeks. forehead against her shoulder, he mutters, 'even here?'

'go ahead,' amell says after a moment and a second rap at the door. the presence is familiar enough that she already knows who stands at the other end.

solas takes one step through the door before freezing. 'ah. apologies, inquisitor. i did not mean to intrude on your dream.'

cullen pulls away and takes his warmth with him, to thumb through the volumes on the bookshelf.

'this isn't a... dream, solas.' it feels as if it should be. three weeks ago she and cullen were barely speaking, and now they're finding their footing once more. 'the commander is really here.'

'you brought him into your dream.'

'nightmare...'

'i see.' solas nods in understanding. dying alone. 'i heard something, but i thought... nevermind.' maybe she isn't the only one nightmare has been hounding. 'it is almost dawn. enjoy the remainder of your rest, inquisitor. commander.'

cullen lifts a hand in farewell, a book in hand.

'solas.' he stops in the doorway. there is no bridge to his rotunda on the other side, just a golden void. 'have you and the others returned to skyhold?'

'we arrived last night, yes.'

'okay. could we talk when we return, then?'

solas bows his head. 'if that is what you wish, inquisitor. good night.'

the light engulfs him, and she no longer feels him within their pocket of the fade. well. saves them from having to send a report on their progress back to skyhold.

amell sighs a little too heavily.

'what's wrong?'

'solas has been upset with me as well. he thinks i'm too sympathetic to the wardens.' which, obviously. but she knows nathaniel will take care of the wardens left at adamant. 'anyway, what have you got there?' she gestures to the book in his hand.

he hands it over. on the cover, in swirling gold filigree is the title the knight and the magic bear. she turns the first page to see cullen's story, illustrated like a children's book.

she smiles.

'perhaps that's why you felt safe.'

she returns the book to the shelf to find every one the same, lined up together like talismans.

he takes her hand.

'we should wake up soon,' he says.

'you don't trust the others will let us sleep in?'

he makes a face. 'no.'

amell laughs on a sigh. 'such faith. come on then,' she says and leads him up to his loft.

there, they lay in his bed as they laid on her bedroll, but she is much more keen to press herself close. to his chest and his fluttering heart, she mumbles, 'thank you. for keeping me safe.'

'annwn - '

-

bright light blinds them as varric pulls back the flaps of her tent, though cullen is quick to pull the blanket back over their heads. 'breakfast is ready! better wake up before tiny eats it all.'

'very risky, varric. what if they were in a... compromising position?'

varric scoffs. 'please. you didn't have to share a tent with him for this little adventure, dorian, but i did. curly hasn't slept a wink since we left skyhold. i think i could recite the chant by heart, now.'

amell waves a hand and the tent flaps close. cullen hums in appreciation, and she decides at least ten more minutes of rest will be worth missing breakfast.

[tooti-fruiti]

FOLLOW THE RULES [CHAPTER TWO]

Ralsei and Lancer

"Sure." You said.

Susie groaned, but decided to stay because she knew she wouldn't get anywhere unless the hooded guy in front of you two gave her directions.

"Very well then.."

"Once upon a time, a legend was whispered among shadows.

It was a legend of hopes

Of dreams

It was a legend of light

And of dark.

This is the legend of Delta Rune.

For millenia, light and dark have lived in balance.

Bringing peace to the world.

But if this harmony were to shatter...

A terrible calamity would occur.

The sky will run black with terror

And the land will crack with fear.

Then, her heart pounding, the earth will draw her final breath.

Only then, shining with hope

Shall appear three heroes at the world's edge.

A human, a monster, and a prince of the darkness.

Only they can seal the fountains and banish the angel's heaven.

Only then will balance be restored and the world will be saved from destruction.

Today, the fountain of darkness is a geyser that gives this land it's form.

It stands tall at the center of the kingdom.

But recently, another fountain has appeared on the horizon.

And with it, the balance of light and dark begins to shift."

"(Y/n). Susie." The hooded figure said. "Thank you for listening to my long tale."

"I truly believe you two are the heroes in the legend. That despite whatever enemies you may face, you two have the courage and strength to save the world."

"Please, Delta Warriors, won't you accept your destiny?"

You were about to say something but Susie beat you to it.

"Nah." She said.

"W-What?"

"Listen Dude." Susie said. "I'm not a hero or a warrior or whatever the fuck you think I am. I'm just here for a piece of chalk."

"But Susie...without you the world will-"

"I know, I heard you. Death and destruction and shit. I don't really care. I'm getting out of here." She said turning around.

"Susie-" You started to say, but you were cut off when someone riding a tricycle ran into the hooded guy.

"Ho ho ho! The heroes are already running away! And they didn't even know I was here, my dad's gonna make me son of the month!"

"Who the hell are you?" Susie said.

"I'm...the bad guy!" The little spade themed guy asked.

"You CLOWNS want to seal our dark fountain huh?! And save the world from eternal darkness?!"

"Not really." Susie muttered.

"Don't deny it! We both know that going to east towards the fountain is your only way out!"

"East huh?" Susie smiled and she turned her back.

"Where do you think you're going?!" The little spade guy yelled as a box formed around you three.

"If you want to leave, you're going to have to fight me, Lancer, first!"

"Oh yeah?" Susie said, growling. "I'll rip you to pieces."

Suddenly, you held a sword in your hand and Susie had a flaming ax.

Lancer was on the other end with one of his tricycle tires on fire.

In front of you were five orange boxes.

Fight, Act, Item, Spare, and Defend.

Susie had those boxes too.

"Are we in some sort of game?!" Susie asked confused.

"I don't know!" You said.

"Oh well! I know what I'm going to do!" Susie growled, bashing her fist into the fight button.

You had no idea what was happening, so you chose to defend.

You grabbed a shield off the floor and held it in front of you.

Susie attacked Lancer.

Then he responded to the attack and tried to run both over.

This repeated about four more times, before Lancer got hungry and left.

"Are both okay?" The hooded figure asked.

"I guess." Susie said. "Alright, I'm out of here."

Susie then put her ax over her back and walked away.

"She's probably going east." The hooded figure said.

"Oh! Let me introduce myself."

He lowered his hood and smiled at you.

"My name is Ralsei." He said, and he turned out to be a cute little goat monster.

"If you accept your destiny, I will happily accompany you on your journey."

You smiled and shrugged.

"It's my way out right? I'll help."

"Wonderful!" Ralsei said. "I'll show you where to go."

(Hope you enjoyed. Stay tuned for more and have a good day.)

<-Chapter One

Chapter Three->

[ebaeschnbliah]

`This is the lawn of Parth Galen’ ...

... a fair place in the summer days of old. Let us hope that no evil has yet come here.'

They drew up their boats on the green banks, and beside them they made their camp. They set a watch, but had no sight nor sound of their enemies. If Gollum had contrived to follow them, he remained unseen and unheard. Nonetheless as the night wore on Aragorn grew uneasy, tossing often in his sleep and waking. In the small hours he got up and came to Frodo, whose turn it was to watch.

`Why are you waking? ' asked Frodo. `It is not your watch.'

`I do not know,' answered Aragorn; `but a shadow and a threat has been growing in my sleep. It would be well to draw your sword.'

`Why? ' said Frodo. `Are enemies at hand? '

`Let us see what Sting may show,' answered Aragorn.

Frodo then drew the elf-blade from its sheath. To his dismay the edges gleamed dimly in the night. `Orcs! ' he said. `Not very near, and yet too near, it seems.'

`I feared as much,' said Aragorn. `But maybe they are not on this side of the River. The light of Sting is faint, and it may point to no more than spies of Mordor roaming on the slopes of Amon Lhaw. I have never heard before of Orcs upon Amon Hen. Yet who knows what may happen in these evil days, now that Minas Tirith no longer holds secure the passages of Anduin. We must go warily tomorrow.'

The day came like fire and smoke. Low in the East there were black bars of cloud like the fumes of a great burning. The rising sun lit them from beneath with flames of murky red; but soon it climbed above them into a clear sky. The summit of Tol Brandir was tipped with gold. Frodo looked out eastward and gazed at the tall island. Its sides sprang sheer out of the running water. High up above the tall cliffs were steep slopes upon which trees climbed, mounting one head above another; and above them again were grey faces of inaccessible rock, crowned by a great spire of stone. Many birds were circling about it, but no sign of other living things could be seen.

When they had eaten, Aragorn called the Company together. `The day has come at last,' he said: 'the day of choice which we have long delayed. What shall now become of our Company that has travelled so far in fellowship? Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor; or turn east to the Fear and Shadow; or shall we break our fellowship and go this way and that as each may choose? Whatever we do must be done soon. We cannot long halt here. The enemy is on the eastern shore, we know; but I fear that the Orcs may already be on this side of the water.'

There was a long silence in which no one spoke or moved.

'Well, Frodo,' said Aragorn at last. `I fear that the burden is laid upon you. You are the Bearer appointed by the Council. Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you. I am not Gandalf, and though I have tried to bear his part, I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour, if indeed he had any. Most likely it seems that if he were here now the choice would still wait on you. Such is your fate.'

Frodo did not answer at once. Then he spoke slowly. `I know that haste is needed, yet I cannot choose. The burden is heavy. Give me an hour longer, and I will speak. Let me be alone! '

Aragorn looked at him with kindly pity. `Very well, Frodo son of Drogo,' he said. `You shall have an hour, and you shall be alone. We will stay here for a while. But do not stray far or out of call.'

Frodo sat for a moment with his head bowed. Sam, who had been watching his master with great concern, shook his head and muttered: 'Plain as a pikestaff it is, but it's no good Sam Gamgee putting in his spoke just now.' ,

Presently Frodo got up and walked away; and Sam saw that while the others restrained themselves and did not stare at him, the eyes of Boromir followed Frodo intently, until he passed out of sight in the trees at the foot of Amon Hen.

JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Breaking of the Fellowship

[purgetrooper77]

Star Wars: Trails of Red Episode 3: The Doctor

Rated: T

tw: none that I could think of

On the planet Monsolar there was a squad of Bith gunmen hunting down a Bothan prisoner. The Bothan was carrying a blaster he stole from an unknown black market. He turned around only to see five Bith chasing him. He fired behind him only to kill one Bith. The Bith fired back but missed the Bothan. Suddenly a female yellow Nautolan with red eyes jumped out of the bushes and fired at the Bith squad. Three Bith soldiers were killed by the attacking Nautolan. The male Bothan turned around and shot down the last two Bith. The Nautolan approached the Bothan. "For a second I thought I was a goner." Bothan said. "I'm always by your side, Norzan." she replied. Norzan and the female Nautolan are close friends who go on adventures together. Both are running low on food and money. "There will be more of them soon." Norzan said. "Luckily I know a place where food is stored. Follow me." The two aliens went east and found a large sack of food outside the forest. It was near a large boulder covered in moss. Norzan felt something was wrong. "It could be a trap." Norzan said. "You actually think someone will use food to trap us?" she asked. "Gideeva, I am serious." "Okay, let's test it." Gideeva said. Gideeva picked up a nearby rock and threw it at the food. Three IG Assassin droids jumped out of the shadows only to be shot down and killed by Norzan. "Okay, that was a trap." Gideeva said. Gideeva was always a reckless Nautolan. She is very lucky to have Norzan by her side. "This planet is full of dangerous people." Norzan said. "Tell me about it, we can't find good food here." Gideeva complained. "The best place we can go now are the cave systems." "As in, we are going underground on this planet?" "What other choice do we have?" Gideeva looked at the surface of the planet. "Okay, I'll go underground with you." she said. The two close friends ran to find a cave system and hid underground. A Zeta-class Heavy Cargo Shuttle landed on the ground. There was a squad of Alzoc TK Troopers searching for a local criminal. "This is TK-1123, we have entered Monsolar." the leader of the squadron said. Two TK Troopers looked to their right only to see a dead Bith gunman on the ground. "Well, it looks like a criminal did that alright." said the third oldest TK Trooper. "Question is, what kind of criminal?" the fourth oldest TK Trooper asked. A Nosaurian peaked his head out from a tree. The TK Troopers turned on their night vision only to encounter the Nosaurian. "There's one!" the second oldest trooper yelled. The Nosaurian drew out his blaster and shot down two TK Troopers. The lead TK Trooper fired his blaster but the Nosaurian dodged the attack. He climbed down a tree and shot down three more TK Troopers. There were three TK Troopers left. "Get back to the shuttle and alert the Empire!" ordered the lead TK Trooper. TK-1123 was shot in the head by the Nosaurian. The last two TK Troopers ran away only to be shot down and killed by the Nosaurian. The Nosaurian ran away as soon as the entire squad of TK Troopers were killed. Gideeva and Norzan made it to the deep parts of the cave system. The caves are so deep, no one could see the two. Norzan drew out a flashlight so that both he and Gideeva could see a small amount of light in the cave. "What are we going to do now?" Gideeva asked. "Honestly I have no idea. Everyone either wants us captured or dead." "But why, what did we even do?" "The Empire hates Jedi Sympathizers and Separatist lovers." "I thought the Jedi did nothing wrong." Gideeva said. "The Jedi did nothing wrong. They helped fight the Clone War. It was that Sith Lord that clouded the minds of Clone Troopers which led them to kill their own generals." Norzan confirmed. "I understand the Jedi Sympathizer but not the Separatist lovers. I don't love Separatists at all." "The Empire knows you have Separatist relatives." Norzan explained. "Yeah but that doesn't mean I love Separatists, it means I tolerated my relatives political beliefs." Gideeva said. There were loud blaster noises coming from above. "What was that?" she asked. "We are not alone." Norzan said. Norzan gave Gideeva his flashlight and ran to investigate the blaster noise. Norzan jumped forward only to see a male Talpiddan staring at a dead Bith gunman. The Talpiddan turned around and spotted Norzan. Norzan took two steps backwards. "Hello, Bothan." the Talpiddan greeted. "Are you part of a criminal syndicate?" "I was, until my friends ditched me on this backwater planet. I was here to steal food from the rich. Apparently someone has beaten me to it." Norzan sees a medical symbol on the Talpiddan's left shoulder. "Are you a medic?" Norzan asked. "Yes I am, a cardiologist to be more exact. I am Dr. Tel Gikon." "Pleasure to meet you, I'm Norzan. I have a Nautolan friend in the caves. We need your help." Norzan told him. "I do have a ship west of here. Currently it is guarded by Bith gunmen and IG Assassins." "My friend and I will fend them off." Norzan told him. "You sure?" Gikon asked. "I am sure." Norzan assured. Gideeva ran up and met up with Gikon and Norzan. "I heard you were fending off people?" she asked. "Yes, but first introductions. Dr. Gikon this is my friend Gideeva. Gideeva this is Dr. Gikon. He is stranded like us." "We'll get to your ship in time. What kind of ship is it?" Gideeva asked. "It is a modified Nemesis-class gunship. West of here." Gikon answered. "Let's go." Gideeva encouraged. The three aliens readied their blasters and moved west of Monsolar. A large portion of Bith gunmen looked at the three friends as they all fired their blasters. Norzan shot down five Bith as Gikon shot down four. Gideeva shot down three Bith. The lead gunman fired his blaster. Norzan dodged the blaster fire and shot down the leader as Gikon shot down three Bith. Gideeva shot down two Bith gunmen that were near the gunship. Gikon turned to the right and shot down the last four gunmen. They all entered the gunship. Gikon got into the cockpit, activated the gunship, and took off from Monsolar never to return. Inonok, Bezz, Borkal, Edojan, and Mokor were in the Ubdur System. In the Ubdur System there was a small space station that has been around since 32 BBY. The population inside the station was lower than five hundred people. They were all enjoying the new life as life around them is surrounded by walls of chatter. "Ahh, this is the life we wanted." Edojan said. "Indeed, I'm glad we pulled the heist." Mokor said. "What do you all want to do?" Inonok asked. "I know a place where we all could go. There is a beautiful beach planet in the Trilon Sector filled with great food and amazing houses. We can go there, eat food, spend time at the beach, all of that fun stuff." Bezz said. "Sounds like a great idea." Edojan said. "Let's go there now." Mokor said. The space station was attacked by U-Wing bounty hunter ships. The starships arrived unannounced which put the entire station in a state of panic. Inonok got into his armed freighter and took off from the space station. He tailgated and destroyed two bounty hunter ships. Three U-Wings fired at the freighter. The freighter took little damage from the U-Wings. Inonok turned his ship around and destroyed four more bounty hunter ships. The remaining two U-Wings turned around but were all destroyed by Inonok's starship. Inonok made his armed freighter return to the space station. He got out of his freighter to explain everything to his friends. "What happened?" Bezz asked. "Bounty hunters attacked the space station. I assume they attacked because word got out that we stole from the Raaf Mansion." Inonok said. "Then we need to split up." Mokor said. "No, we need to fight off every bounty hunter till their clients can't send them anymore." Bezz said. "Or we could find the person who is sending bounty hunters after us." Borkal suggested. "Exactly what I was thinking." Inonok said. "Where do we go to do that?" Bezz asked. "I might know a place." "Where?" Edojan asked. "Kimanan, it's in the Inner Rim." Inonok answered. "Kimanan, there is nothing there." Mokor said. "I have heard stories about criminal activities involving bounty hunters there. Besides, it is the Inner Rim we're talking about. Nothing screams criminal activity without the Inner Rim." Inonok said. "Well I don't see why we can't go there." Bezz said. "Me too, let's go to Kimanan." Borkal said. The five rich aliens went into the armed freighter and took off from the space station. They jumped to hyperspace to start their next mission in the Inner Rim Territories.

[fatherhoodstory]

last summer

It’s well past midnight but the moon is almost full and there are long shadows behind things. The storms came heavy from the south as the sun went down and the pavement still shines in the dead glow of streetlights and moonlight, the air cleansed and cool for late August. East and south to the sea a heat wave bakes the landscape, killing livestock as they follow the patches of shifting shade. The ice is melting, the seas warm, entire forests take to flame like matchsticks and fill this valley, and our lungs, with the ashy remnants of the dead.

I stand among the sunflowers we planted in the spring, hundreds of them bathed in moonlight, heads slightly bowed, as if sleeping, waiting for the world to turn back towards the light. The soil beneath me is dark and rich, the smell taking me to quieter places. There is a frat party at the end of the block, drunken children walk by yelling and laughing, their conversations dark and stupid. Most stare down, necks and shoulders slumped into the dull glow of a phone, oblivious to the sunflowers, me, or the stars above them. A few of them look in my direction as I stand swaying gently with the sunflowers, the leaves and heads as big as basketballs. They say nothing and hurry along, not sure of what they saw but not looking again. I stand out here because you are sleeping and the noise of this place woke me. There are cars too, speeding up and down the street, screeching their tires amid the screams from the open windows. It sounds like the end of the world or the madness and chaos that might take place then and I could not sleep and now stand vigil in the night. I did this when you were younger, just a baby, but there were only coyotes then, yipping wildly at the moon, or bears, wolves, or a lone lion passing through in the shadows, and always the silhouette of mountains against the brightly speckled dark. The fire is here too, the coals grey and cold in the night. I can see the stain of Bison blood where I let it run out onto the cracked concrete as I peeled the skin back to reveal the skull. It found its way back to the soil here, an offering, to the memory of the place where we make our stand. This is the Valley of the Flower, and before John Bozeman or Nathaniel P. Langford ever thought about exploiting it, the People lived and hunted here; the Blackfeet, the Nez Perce, Lakota, Crow, and the Shoshone. I stand there with the Bison blood and flowers, looking out at the rivers below and the peaks beyond, what they call Yellowstone now, the Tobacco Roots, the Bridgers. There is no concrete, no cars, no drunk kids or people at all. It is quiet save the wind and distant thunder from the storm that has already moved on into another world. You sleep still and I can see your face, same as it ever was, and I hope that you can see this place in your dreams, the way it was and might be again someday, when the Buffalo return. In the morning it will be slightly colder, another winter waiting patiently for its time just over those mountains to the north. Time and memory fade now, deeper into the dark. Like space above, endless, unfathomably cold and black. Is there judgement after all this, redemption, or do we simple play out our lives below the void of this silent expanse? After a while I can rest and lay down again. It is almost 3 and I have been standing out here for hours. The drunks and cars and intensity of things grows as quiet as it ever does here. The train blows it's horn again and again for they never stop, the coal they dig and carry must feed the fires that burn the world.

In the morning I will be tired and you will be rested. You will never know that I stood watch long after you were asleep, after I fell asleep beside you and wake and stand in the night. As long as I am able I will stand vigil and protect you, even if it is only from the dark and cold that surrounds us.

[7r0773r]

Sidetracks by Bei Dao, translated by Jeffrey Yang

V.

the eyes of the daughters and sons of the river are shining wilderness dazzling sunlight polishes the surface of the lake remembrances and bullets share this century mail trucks tumble along into the hour of lamplight prisoners dance in concentric circles of moonlight anxious stones pile up into mountains assault troops storm through the gates of the city's memories

tightening the toy's rusted mechanism licking the wounds of first love sprinkle a little salt let the two crickets fight in the innermost heart fruit pit spit out the secret of birth erase the comet tail on the blackboard the eyes of a cat chase after the festival of flowing water I ride the wooden horse of a carousel lost in thought

windmills churn thick clouds in the sky more people join the refugees' routes their languages create countless colors arise from the masks in the museum of humankind cooking smoke blends the hues of the blue twilight a priest prays in the shadow of a candle flame God lashes the city with lightning

O wanderer of the worn world folded within time along the horizon forest trees breathe thoughts dropped into a mailbox in an unfamiliar town the shadow of death takes flight on the road a perfect plate handcrafted artistry breaks free at last from the essence of things

waking up in the garret of the small hotel curtains flutter clear skies turn to clouds in the oil painting of the harbor no sails below the castle the din of the world surrounded by light and flags on the back of a picture postcard Chinese characters are the first informant

northward leads to a solitary pass how long is the tape reel of the deep night measuring the variable weather maps lovers climb through the balcony window on the table the fruit is ripening joining the ranks of insomniacs— winter flashes a smile

let the hand crutch of logic bloom no detour around the season of wheat don't bring along the baggage of a disquiet heart more deranged than a paperweight riding the waves history like the confessions of a suffering patient paces of light cross through the forest to a place more distant than thought

in a dream berries are screaming bidding farewell to the end of homesickness is morning finding the truth of the keyhole

***

VIII.

From 497 BCE to 484 BCE Confucius led his disciples on a fourteen-year journey through various states. In 493 BCE, separated from his disciples, he seated himself alone outside the east city gate of Zheng and stared into space.

your years near sixty setting sun white hair makes a brush tip shadow crooked as a flawed brushstroke points to the homeland east those children running against the backlight turn into pictographs and one by one practice the intonations dawn sets flight a flock of pigeons maps aren't for commemorating wars you turn to gaze at the cooking smoke and the well

days of wind chasing clouds the road tows awake the open sky on the mountains-and-rivers chessboard you play with the king inside the heart carefully trace the fortune in a palm step by step explore the path defeat always at your own hands disciples have dispersed dyeing twilight atop a flag post you are an audience of one

at fifteen devote myself to learning follow the transmission of the rites up the stone steps you rap the drums strike the chimes drink farewell wine at thirty steadfast at forty free of doubts sit and discuss the dao survey the stars at fifty perceive the will of heaven through the Changes of Zhou set foot in court shuttle forth in brocade clothes to the imperial baldachin in the vast palace hall emptiness you raise cups to summon the wind from eight directions

at sixty ears open and willing during the twilight of your life you hear dawn light whispering conspiracy accompanying the aristocracy of the age the palace sinks with the golden lamps you look back at the rolling mountains wholly absorbed with the tuning of the tones for three months not knowing the taste of meat history books send assassins on your trail to replace you with multiple shadows

at seventy do as my heart desires without exceeding the pattern begin with a single step and still change course the temple tolls the bell for you push back the four bare walls Apricot Altar is the nominal heart emperors bypass the Yellow River while supreme Mount Tai is humorless just as someone once described that stray dog mourning his lost home you speak well stop for a rest before rushing on the road outside the city through how many dynasties

***

XXIII.

peel the onions pepper crushed with reality place the turkey in the oven time set temperature November 24, 1994 Thanksgiving Day depart from San Francisco cross the prime meridian Bejing Capital Airport I line up behind the years little window of immigration the moon dons a military cap homesickness—electric plug connects to a power source and the internet locks my name my secret garden confiscated seeds of poetry

the covert guests finally arrive force me to utter my other name it is I a chain of enraged ancestors and the mountains refuse to answer any questions video recorder and tape recorder aimed at me written confession a starving blank sheet of paper the curtain of night opens my one-act play I wash chopsticks dishes behind the wood plank wall is the lawn the sun like a prisoner awaiting a death sentence

Colonel Zhang border control rusted smile gears grind for him to climb through a lifetime and from the corner of his mouth a flash of humanity I'm the lead in the play barebulb circling round and round in the whirlpool of night I sleepwalk— may the hour of existence spit out silk a self-spun cocoon more reliable than the universe my name leads to another name stage revolves I chase after me

soliloguy: a jailbreak in Chinese characters figures cast onto the heavenly canopy layer after layer I am silently reading my heartbeat at the boundary of semantic hostility local accent pursues an outsider prostrate on the table turbine engine bearing my half-asleep half-awake flight cockroaches underground intelligence agents follow the corners of the wall to pass on information from their superiors

dawn roar take off from the runway in accord with the standard breakfast of the armed police— congee steamed buns pickled vegetables boiled eggs two invisible men take turns watching me one is a lover of poetry a line of verse and the path of an official leading to the same destination 9:05 in the morning Beijing time the king and the horse formally declaim— I will be immediately deported from China

a large bus speeds onto the tarmac armed police step out of the vehicle clear the way for me in a black leather jacket to fight for the defeated accompanied by Colonel Zhang toward the airplane door photographed from a high angle in the waiting area tomorrow a blank space shadow retreats horizon rehearses the winter overture take a seat in the cabin Colonel Zhang gives me a firm handshake liquid mercury streams down the porthole window

***

XXVI.

at the morgue Laughlin identifies Dylan Thomas's corpse a semiliterate young girl confirms it— "he wrote poems" mad Dylan a flock of pigeons sets the church spinning

by the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds

gold sand fills the hourglass— a time of terror constantly shifting waves of stocks and shares catch up with the shipwrecked sliver of moon no one signs graffiti or petroglyphs keep climbing from the artist's life to freefall Manhattan honking band funeral march for the Hudson River

l open an umbrella to survive the backward descent

someone with a hangover blows open a morning glory silent film in slow-motion walking in the opposite direction of history runs aground on the precipice of death books rise into towers crossing through the tunnel of language there's no exit

Eliot my birthyear brother different cradles unfamiliar ocean we meet by chance on Turtle Island the wild winds in his books let me drift and moor in the four directions shadows slant chasing after the noonday of myths

catch the last stop before the final parting

riding the noon train out to Long Island open the New York Times upside down the world obscured by another type of language I dream about the lions at the Beijing Zoo the first day of class English the executioner's ax so bitingly cold Chinese somehow still in the brain

at Stony Brook meet C. N. Yang one-on-one tutorials the blind man leading the bright-eyed poetry manufacturing at the end of the assembly line— bedroom mirror crack open the language vault walk the dog but don't forget to bring yourself along

days flap away symposium for Chinese writers in exile Eliot moderates Octavio and Marie-José Paz in the audience we eat dinner together candle flames three-language carousel Tiananmen Cold War American politics and literature concerning Neruda's odes to Stalin Paz shakes his head— "transgressed political and ethical principles"

I pursue someone, he tumbles, gets back up again, sees me and says, No one

China Independent Film Festival opening ceremony saxophone dives into the night uncovers a stream using words to fish reel in the comet beyond imagination the audience enters a space larger than light heavy snowfall weight of nothingness skip stones on the reflecting pool at Lincoln Center and dignity more important than a failed cause

a clenched fist suddenly sets metaphor free

after the explosion two women survivors stagger out of the movie screen naked toward an actress neighbor they borrow clothes go into hiding the times and the undercurrent—Weathermen forever young they are the wind describe the shape of the wind

you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows

[hymnoire]

Gaya's laughter is always loud at Zee's words, the mocking type of loud laughter, yet light and melodious. Is the black swan mocking her companion? Oh, she loves to do so, even though it is affectionate in a way. Kang Gaya likes you when she picks up on your little quirks and flaws. "The suspect is surrounded by his supporters and benefactors, as expected. We need to be subtle. A direct confrontation could tip him off and make him run. I will be good." Her last words are spoken as she goes to her mission, following the plan they have elaborated in their late-night reunions. Lee Kwangsun is a mole, a defenseless scientist who has been smart in his ways yet, like his three other defeated allies, shouldn't be so hard to take down. For a soldier duo such as Zee and Gaya, it must be easy. The grand ballroom they stand in is a symphony of opulence: crystal chandeliers projecting a warm glow over the guests, their laughter and chatter mingling with the soft strains of a string quartet. Gaya navigates through the crowd, her black dress shimmering like liquid midnight under the lights. The heiress spots Lee Kwangsun across the room, surrounded by a cluster of admirers. His laughter is forced; the heiress has a particular aversion towards this type of traitor. It isn't so difficult for the heiress to enter the circle—their paths have crossed a few times since the House of Miséricorde and REAL united. Dr. Lee, however, was unaware Gaya had been tasked to suppress men like him. With a charming smile, Gaya approaches him, her movements fluid and confident. "Mr. Lee," she purrs, with a slight head bow in respect. Lee's eyes widen slightly, but he recovers quickly, bowing his head in the same way. "Miss Kang." They engage in light conversation. Gaya's staged charm and wit effortlessly draw Lee's attention away from his entourage. Slowly, she walks by his side and maneuvers him towards a quieter part of the room, away from prying eyes and ears. She catches Zee's gaze across the room, giving a subtle nod. In a secluded alcove, Gaya leans in, her voice low. "Mr. Lee, there are some delicate matters we need to discuss. Matters that require privacy." Lee hesitates but eventually nods, following her through a side door into a dimly lit corridor. Gaya taps her earpiece lightly. "East wing corridor." The conversation should start easily, pretending there is a case from the organization they must discuss. Through the said discussion, the heiress knows exactly how to trick him and drag a conclusion from his answers. However, the discussion couldn't even start when suddenly, Lee's demeanor shifts. "You think I didn't see this coming?" he sneers. Before Gaya can react, a hulking henchman emerges from the shadows, throwing himself at her, a man she's never seen before.

"FUCK." she exclaims in rage. Gaya moves with lightning speed, blocking the first punch with her forearm. The henchman's eye twitches; it is unreal for such a petite body as hers to even stand against someone like him. That's right, swans do not feel pain and this swan knows how to fight. She delivers a swift kick to the bodyguard's ribs. The impact echoes through the corridor, but she barely feels it. The bodyguard recovers quickly, swinging at her again. The black swan ducks, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back, her movements precise and deadly. The bodyguard grunts in pain, but Gaya is relentless. The man manages to twist his way out, however, slamming against the wall, his elbow going for her neck. He reaches for his gun, but Gaya is faster. She retrieves her Glock from her garter, the cold metal against the henchman's forehead. Bang, he collapses. Gaya breathes heavily, her heart pounding with adrenaline. She taps her earpiece again. "Zee, Kwangsun's on the run. He's going west. Get him." Without waiting for a response, she takes off down the corridor, her heels echoing against the marble floors as she runs. She runs fast through the labyrinthine halls, determined to catch up with Kwangsun. The mission is far from over, and failure is not an option.

[toasterdrake]

Gildokkar

Astrid Hofferson x GN!Reader

DISCLAIMER: I am by no means a linguist. I couldn't find an answer of the necessary phrase, so I took two Old Norse words from a site that seemed more reliable than google translate, and stuck them together in my best guestimate of how an Old Norse compound word might be created. I'm sorry if I got it tragically wrong - correct me if you know what it should be!

Word count: 1.6k

request for @acoupleofbravedorks

"Where are we going?" You ask for the fifth time.

Astrid rolls her eyes. "You'll find out soon," she repeats for the fifth time, exasperated but still jovial. 

It's rare to see her so happy these days, what with the tension surrounding Viggo's disappearance. Whatever she has planned, she's in high spirits so it's something to look forward to. Thor knows you've grown sick of Hiccup's constant reconnaissance missions and Snotlout's neverending rants and Fishlegs' well-meaning meditation sessions.

Beneath you, your dragon dips into a dive, gliding down to the lush island below. They slip into a narrow ravine, following Stormfly's lead as she navigates the stray foliage and jutting rocks with an unexpected familiarity. (Then again, it would be worrying if Astrid didn't know something inside and out before letting down her guard.)

Finally you emerge onto a grassy clearing, dismounting once your dragon lands so they can run off to roll in a patch of dragon nip with Stormfly. You take in your new surroundings.

An overhang of rock above your head casts a shadow past the entrance to a grotto, from which the sound of tumbling water echoes. Where the overhang ends, a sand beach begins, foaming saltwater rising and falling easily. Between the grotto and the beach clusters of wildflowers wave in the light breeze, sun-drenched as they look out northwards. They - thyme, peonies, geraniums - and you, have an unobstructed view of the sun roaming east to west across the sky. Harmonic birdsong from the forest above knits into ribbons of floral perfumes.

Astrid must've been lucky to find this place: the overhang would make it nearly invisible from the air and from the ground it can only be accessed via the ravine. A genius defensive position protecting a beautiful haven.

Astrid clears her throat, drawing your gaze to a much more divine view. She holds a bouquet of prismatic wildflowers out to you. She sports a blush, shuffles her feet. Warmth blooms in your chest; you love that she is soft with you.

Astrid had been waiting for this all week. A cold weather front had swept through the Edge Archipelago just as everything else came into alignment. It ruined plans for your already extremely delayed date. Astrid was an active, outdoorsy person. She could only stand so many days resting by the fire, and by that point you shared her sentiment to escape.

"Astrid," you breathe reverently. You take the bouquet from her, savouring the soft gliding of skin over skin. "This is so sweet of you." You hide your smile behind the flowers by lifting them to your nose. You enjoy the sweet fragrances as much as you quietly revel in the knowledge that this is an intimate gesture reserved only for you.

You don't get to enjoy it for long, though.

A dragon-sized blur shoves between you and Astrid, sending you both flying like bowling pins. Stormfly leaps over your heads to pursue them, scattered flowers swept away in her hurry.

Astrid panics and chases the blossoms as they drift closer to the beach. But the dragons, thinking it's a game, run after her and jump into the water, all flailing wings and waving tails. The cavernous eruption catches the flowers and drags them beneath settling waves. For some reason you almost expect Astrid to give up then, but she dives in after them without hesitation.

When she surfaces, it is clutching a few pathetic, limp, raggedy stems. Astrid looks about as dejected as they do. Nevertheless she plows through the waves to return to you. You meet her where the water laps at her ankles. 

You take the stems from her, regard them for a moment, and then pull Astrid in for a deep kiss. You try to pour as much of the love you are feeling into the kiss; try to convey how much you appreciate every big and small gesture she's made, today or any day. 

When you separate she seems much happier than her Aphrodite-esque emergence from the water, so you count the success.

The dragons continue playing in the water, but now your girlfriend needs to dry off in the sun, so you pull her down to sit on the beach. You take off your boots and bury your toes in the warm sand. (Gods, you were grateful this island was so far south.) Astrid follows your lead, placing her boots and yours a little ways back on the grass before settling in beside you.

Quiet passes lazily like the perfect clouds in the sky. It's a together kind of quiet; the kind where words aren't needed to enjoy each other's presence. Astrid leans on your shoulder, sighing contently as you both watch the dragons play.

"What's this place called?"

"Hm?"

"The island," you say, gesturing vaguely behind you, "have you named it yet?"

Astrid plays with the hem of her leggings where they stop at her ankle. "I was actually thinking we could choose a name together." She proposes.

You smile; a small, private thing meant for your thoughts. Heat creeps up your cheeks. She wants to name it with you?

"Well then, what do you think about…" you trail off, spending a long moment looking around for inspiration. The grotto catches your eye. "...Fallcave Island?"

"Fallcave?" Astrid barks a sharp, surprised laugh. "How did you come up with that?"

Your blush shifts to embarrassment. You shove her shoulder and she falls onto the sand, laughing. Then she stands and pulls you up. Leads you over to the grotto, guides you inside.

The grotto is a whole different world from the breezy field outside. The air is stale; a kind of minty earthy aroma clinging to your tongue. The naturally hewn rock is damp, so you step carefully in Astrid's sure footsteps. The waterfall across an iridescent pool is gentler than the bounding echoes make it seem, only in reality falling a few feet off a higher shelf. The stream trails off into the darkness. This island just keeps on giving; a cave system all yours to explore with Astrid. 

The pool is as black as dragon scale, as smooth and unchanging as glass. Glow worms hanging from the jagged ceiling reflect on the water's surface like hundreds of stars. One of them waves in a ghostly wind, briefly a shooting star.

Astrid bravely weaves your fingers together.

"How about Gildokkar Island?"

You hum in question.

"Gildokkar. Valued by us… Our Island."

You almost collapse. "Ast, that's so cute!" 

You go in for a hug, but she gets to you first. As her arms close around you, a wave of - affection, love, closeness - crashes over you. You don't know if it originates from her or from you, or if it is a spiritual mingling of shared emotions, but to embrace your lover is to embrace your capacity to love. And you happily drown in it.

~[A]~

- love, Lynx

[vespersposts]

Sleepless

Hi lovelies 💝,

August means something to those who have an obsession crush like mine.

💙Let's all celebrate that nice Daiki's birthday together, hoping that sooner or later he will decide to move next door to me, or in my house directly. This story is self indulgent as hell, but when it comes down to him, even your serious author loses the plot. The story is pretty long so I decided to double split it, i think it'd be easy for the two-time reading.

📝 small side note: suffering from insomnia myself, I am well aware that the representation I have given is only useful for the purposes of the narrative, I hope it does not offend other nocturnal animals .

Happy birthday D! 💘

📮Comments, criticism, sharing and like are so appreciated!📮

Follow the #knbhousewarming or #housewarmingbyvesper to find all the entries, or just ask for a tag I’d be glad to add you.

Who’s gonna be next? ( 💜: He's HUGE!). If you prefer a different Knb boy, let me know!

Love always,

V.

💋PS: If any of you amazing authors would like to contribute with original work to this series, that would be a dream for me. Please send me the link and tag me so I won’t miss any stories, and use the #knbhousewarming , as the platform sometimes gets crazy.

💣PPS: I apologize in advance for any grammatical and/or spelling mistakes, English is not my first language (bear with me!).

➿Genre: fluff, slice of life, one shot.

🏡 Housewarming Masterlist🏡

New York, Brooklyn Heights

Sunday, 03.15 A.M (ET)

A starry June night.

It hadn't happened to you for so long that you'd almost forgotten about it. You had started to lose bits and pieces of yourself sneakily, little by little, during a busy work period where sleeping hours were the last thing on your mind. A mountain of photos to edit, which the editor of the glossy fashion magazine you worked for had adored, promoting you to art director just to piss your predecessor. You had accepted, not so much because you were dying to find new trouble, but so that you could afford that house, in which you had dreamed of living since childhood.

It wasn't even like the other times: you were functioning. You worked too well, you worked twice as hard, you had twice as many ideas, but unfortunately you also thought twice as much. Perhaps you had not noticed it, but it stood there and had waited for the worst possible moment to make itself known.

The only unimportant detail, this time around your insomnia seemed not to want to go away.

One week, and if you hadn't slept at least five hours in three days you would have had to swallow the holy pills.

That's why, at that ungodly hour, you had slipped on leggings and trainers, zipped up your jacket over your sports bra, tied your hair in a high ponytail and, trotting down the building's stairs, were about to do the only thing that had worked in the past: tire yourself to death.

Off season for him mainly meant enjoying life. 

That's why from October to April he called Cleveland home, but then the rest of the year he loved to spend it in Japan or in that flat that had been recommended to him, only a few weeks earlier, by an ex teammate. A city that looked like a district of elegant brownstone cottages, with a lovely tree-lined promenade along the East River, the same one along which the girl from flat 13 was probably headed.

"Going for a run in the darkest hours, how stupid! The night was for having fun, chatting, making love and eventually sleeping ” he had thought as he held the door and enjoyed your brief ritual exchange of 'Good morning / thank you / please be careful/ sleep tight'. 

He had never ventured to ask anything , not even the reason for your strange habit of spending every night that God sent on earth awake and alone in the big flat in front of his own, going out onto the terrace to gaze at the dark night. He perceived you as a shadow against the window light, a shadow that stretched and sometimes danced to music that he couldn't hear, a shadow that returned to the night when you turned off the flat lights, and that came back from the night when your silhouette was dimly lit by the light of a faint candle. The very fact that he knew nothing about you, that he understood nothing about you, intrigued him.  You were a nocturnal, wild and elusive animal and he was the only one who understood your rare nature. In his mind you were an assumption, a fascinating thought that he could not help but think about. A challenge, an exciting balancing act. Yet you had a boyfriend, so he was told by the lovely old woman who lived next door, whom you called 'Granny' , and for whom you gladly ran small errands. "An ordinary guy" the former opera singer had revealed to him, when she had subjected him to her personal entrance examination into the social life of the building. He had wasted so much time thinking about what kind of person might have attracted your attention that, ironically, for the first time in a long time it was he who was left alone for the night. 

The sky changes, and you see the lights go on in other houses, the curtains open, and the day of people who know how to sleep can begin. You ask your pod for some music and turn on your computer, but your eyes see only one thing. You read his name in the inbox and open the email, only to realize how loathsome he can still be.

 "I'll pick Grandma up at 11 a.m. Tight schedule. Make sure she has everything she needs and not just useless evening clothes." 

"Go and die " you type back, adding a smiley emoticon as in your best tradition. It's always like that with Elliott anyway. Scion of a banking cult, slick student at your own private school, brilliant manager of the main branch of the institution founded by an ancient  great-great-grandfather. You grew up elbow to elbow, he the only one able to tolerate your less than aristocratic origins, and you the only one able to handle his awful temper. A partnership cemented by the unconditional love you both had for that now elderly lady with a very tarnished memory, for whom you were both genuinely her beloved daughter's children.

You finish your tea, open the curtains and windows, so that the fresh dawn air enters the whole flat, hoping that it will wash away even that last shapeless thought. It's probably a side effect of sleep deprivation, your brain's way of getting the endorphins you deny it, but it's ridiculous that he makes you feel like a young girl on her first crush. You look towards his balcony, the window slightly open, the lights off, and you know he is sleeping, since you met him three hours ago. He was alone, but that boy was handling traffic in his house comparable to an airport terminal.

You smile at that innocent naughtiness of yours, which is only the result of the awareness that the relationship between you will remain formal. Grandma liked him, so it was common for her to invite him for tea or some fancy excuse. She would entartain him with anecdotes, or her fantasies, or a mixture of the two, and you would find him standing in front of you, tall and alluring every day; and every day you would notice a detail that  shatters your determination not to pay attention to him. If only there was a freaking summer league, or if only he had gone back to Japan for his holiday, you would have had some respite from that constant assault on your senses.  As it was meant to be, that day too could not pass without you finding him before your eyes for the umpteenth time, his charcoal shirt that couldn't look better on those perfect shoulders, his light trousers wrapped his toned legs, his enticing eyes following you around the room, now that you asked grandma permission to review her holiday suitcase. His loud laughter and his hands, those big, long hands of his, that had touched yours to deliver a glass of water, perhaps lingering longer than necessary, but more prosaically pandering to your anxiety, now that with the departure of the hostess,  your chances to meet him would drop.

When Elliott arrives, the situation becomes surreal.

"You should go to lunch together" suggests your childhood friend, after spending the first half hour of his visit telling Grandma the epic story of the Japanese basketball champion, who is conquering the NBA, gloating like a teen in front of a k-pop idol.

"You know I go to Poppa's for lunch on Sundays" you cut it short, hoping to silence him, but the banker who looks like a Vogue model, is having none of it.

"In that Bed-Stuy dump?" he snorts, looking at Daiki as if the latter might know something about the toponymy of the quarters.

"Elliott, I was born there, I'd appreciate it if you didn't call it a sewer" you take him back, under the embarrassed gaze of your host.

"It sucks even if you were born there! Besides, what the fuck are you doing at Poppa's, if you don't even like meat! You're not a fucking rat anymore!" fights that big son of a gun. You fold your arms across your chest and are about to send him to hell, but he grabs you close for a hug, and you give in.

"Do you really want to take Aomine to a place like that, sis ?" he asks you , just to provoke you again, as if he expects a thank you for setting you up on a date. You look at him, half-close your eyes, about to give your answer when his voice shushes you both.

"Im so in for it. I'd like to see something different. You're gonna buy me lunch in return, deal? " his voice was so deep and warm. You'd like to make an excuse and leave him in that room, but the only thing you make him leave at home, as a precaution, is his watch.

"I hope you're not the fussy type" your  voice comes to him out of the blue, shortly after you've taken a seat in a filthy underground car. 

"No, I wouldn't say that " he replies, noticing how the landscape changes rapidly: from the open space of your nice district you move on to large buildings all leaning against each other, shops with broken or worn out signs, dirty streets and people with empty eyes.

"You're probably thinking Elliott was right, but ..." you carry on, as if suddenly embarrassed.

"Not at all. I was actually wondering why you moved, if you love your old block so much " he asks, turning his eyes from the window to your own.

"Because Bed-Stuy had nothing to offer me, apart from Poppa's cooking " you sigh " Since I had good grades, they admitted me to Elliott's school, but you can imagine what it was like. I was "rat" for everyone except him. Actually, when I took this train from school and went back home, all I thought about was how much I wanted to leave, how much I wanted to live in the beautiful Brooklyn Heights too, where the houses had lots of rooms and a balcony, where there were people like Grandma and not drug dealers and criminals. I'm not in love with this area, but I owe a lot to it, that's why I go back there every Sunday " you admit, giving him a glance, and he feels you so close and fragile that he would hug you tight, but he knows that would be inappropriate, to say the least.

You get off the metro, and after a short walk you find yourself in front of a row of buildings all alike, dense like the cells of a beehive, closed around a sort of common space that probably should have been a recreational area equipped with facilities, but now only looks decadent, sad and rusty. He saw  groups of children playing haphazardly and cheerfully, kids with loud music watching you quizzically, elderly people raising their hands to wave at you, bullies making offers that fall on deaf ears, until you find yourself in a narrow, dark alley, right behind what must once have been a basketball court. Yet the entrance to the diner was on the main face of the building, as the arrow of the sign suggests. 

"Come, don't be afraid, looks bad but it's safe" you mock him gently, your hand reaching for his one, your fingers interlacing with his to reassure him, but the effect his body sends back is a wave of overwhelming desire that makes his blood boil in his ears and leaves him unable to articulate words. He runs the palm of his hand along your forearm, over your skin, so soft and smooth. You look at him, open your lips to tell something, but he has already lost the ability to understand. Skinship, attraction, risk, a lethal mixture is pumped through his veins at an unsustainable pace.  He is about to close his fingers around your elbow to pull you to him and take you, locking you against that cold brick wall, when a male voice roars your name and divides you.

Poppa is a giant with a contagious good temper and arrogant, hearty cooking, who immediately sets you up at the best table in the place, in the small green space at the end of the dark alley, just behind his kitchen. Your burger looks alive, judging by the amount of toppings and cheese it leaks, which is why you are teased by both of them, who over the years must have honed an exact technique for holding bread, meat and toppings together.

"It's not a guy who looks like him, Pops" you explain, making the man's eyes widen "I brought you the real deal!" you smile, taking a long sip of water. Now the man's attention shifts to you, because "He knew he had seen you somewhere before".

"That's me Sir. Aomine Daiki, the one who plays in Cleveland" you reply and see the man's eyes light up with joy. "Man! We are all crazy about you, you're a genius!" the man shouts, calling out to all his kitchen staff, so that they too can shake hands and take pictures with the man who scored an average of 22 points per game in the last championship. It starts a party, which soon involves the whole block and in which he seems completely at ease, so much so, that he willingly accepts to shoot a few rounds with a group of boys from the local team, raising the already torrid temperature considerably, when he takes off his shirt and asks you to keep it, completely unaware of the emotional tsunami that watching him play causes. If Daiki in grandma's kitchen is attractive, in his element he is the most sensual and exciting man walking on earth. The way he moves, his absolute mastery of his body, those bright eyes full of agonism and above all his smile so radiant and seductive, which he never fails to turn on you after every point scored.

"Awesome!" shouts the girl sit next to you on the bench.

To you it's not awe, it's crave.

That dangerous feeling does not leave you even when you return to the metro, when you shower in your flat only to knock on his door shortly afterwards, having agreed to have dinner with him, bewildered as you were by lust.

You find him exactly as you left, absorbed in a phone call with someone he likes as he laughs, but that's all you can understand as he speaks a fascinating but unfamiliar language to you, which makes his voice sound even deeper.

"Excuse me, bestfriends catchup" he smiles, as you reach to take two glasses from his hands, asking if he can get you water instead of the caffeinated drink he opens for himself.

"I can't sleep lately, so I'm trying to ... " you stop, because there is no need for him to know that embarrassing fact about you. He glances at you fondly, as if he really cares about your story.

"Yeah I mean, it's a period where I should also call someone special to relax" you cut in short, taking a sip of water.

“You can call him, I'm sure he'd love to be your hero! ” he suggests.

"Him who, though? Elliott?" you ask, as you follow him moving away from you to retrieve a set of flyers from the fridge.

"Your boyfriend" he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

"I don't have a boyfriend " you answer with undue urgency, figuring out shortly afterwards the genesis of that misunderstanding, as Grandma had muddled up Elliott's boyfriend as yours.

"Time to get one, if you don't want the situation to worsen! " he says, approaching you, taking advantage of your discomfort to mess up your hair, and leave the flyers in your hands, with the options from which you will have to choose your dinner. Then he finally goes to take a shower, smiling at you blushing at his soft tease.

A normal routine.

"For a couple " adds your brain, which has evidently lost all its best cells, and can't think of anything else. You sit on the chubby rough linen sofa in the big white living room, look at the dark marble of the fireplace, the high neoclassical walls, the windows with their thin curtains, close your eyes and lean your head , trying to avoid the storytelling of that absurd fantasy. Yet, all the naughty things you two could be busy doing on every surface of that huge house, are the only thoughts swirling around in your head. That sharp desire takes all your energy away, surely making you look pathetic in his eyes, actually used to see models, and not a vapid chick like you. You rub your face and take a deep breath, feeling a sudden saddness that makes your body heavy.

He quickly ran a towel through his hair, pulled on a white T-shirt, fastened his dark trousers and inhaled, because after that day, it had been a terrible idea to ask you to stay for dinner. He wasn't ready, and now what he had felt after your last conversation was haunting him, reverberating endlessly in his mind. He wanted to take care of you, he wanted to be him and no one else the mainstay of your life, and that was upsetting, because that was not the way he was. He was careless, free, unattached. Yet he would not have tolerated you perceiving him that way. He wanted to be infallible in your eyes. He wanted to be the one, unrepeatable, incomparable, irreplaceable.

And then he wanted to have you. He wanted to have you so badly.

He smiled because on the large sofa in the living room you looked so tiny, all curled up on one of the large linen cushions, one bare foot on the edge of the furniture, your small hand beside your sleeping face, your soft breathing , your hair spread over your shoulders left bare by the pretty blue dress you were wearing.

Too damn cute.

He dimmed the lights in the room until they went out, leaving only the pale reading light on, retrieved a blanket, but stopped shortly after because a sudden flick of your eyelids caught his attention. 

"Dai-ki," you tell him with a sigh, probably still in dreamland, as you can't keep your eyes open. You smile as he approaches and slowly strokes your head, running his fingers through your hair and over the nape of your neck, sitting on the rug at the foot of the sofa so he can see you.

" I'm here" he says gently to your sleeping self, resuming his slow, sweet caress.

"Speak to me, tell me something in your language, anything " you call him out in a smooth voice, so innocent but with a hint of need that immediately roused all his senses

"Daisuki na, oyasumi nasai. Yoku nemureru to iine." (*) he indulges you idly, more to himself, thinking that you may have already caught up on your sleep, so beautiful and cuddly that those words come out naturally, as if he is breathing.

"Your voice is so sultry , it gives me chills " you murmur, blinking a little, your soft lips curving upwards.

"Chills?" he asks back, amused.

"Anything about you is so damn attractive, do you have any idea how tiring it is to resist ? " you admit, laughing quietly at your own boldness, turning towards him, so close you can feel his scent. He smiles at you, bringing your forehead into contact with his. You open your eyes and you feel your body slightly shiver , when he demands your undivided attention, pressing his thumb against your lower lip as he whispers those words.

"Then don't"

He closes the distance between you, working his way over you, locking his eyes in yours, making you sigh. His lips join yours with a light touch, that immediately deepens. He smiles against your lips, his tongue plays with yours, his voice claims you with a sensual moan to which you immediately surrend, as you do not want him to miss anything about you. You smile just to catch your breath, and kiss him back wholeheartedly. His eyes close ever so slightly after yours, allowing him to lose himself completely in your warmth.

It hadn't happened to you for so long that you had almost forgotten. You had forgotten what it was like to wake up in the house of someone who smiled at you, while you were having breakfast on the terrace of his flat, who stole your food, teasing you because you had fallen asleep like a stone on his sofa. A funny, handsome man with a childlike soul who, only a few days earlier , you had hoped would spend the off season light years away from you, but who now, leaning next to you on the railing of his flat, already seemed too far away.

(*): Hopefully it's the correct form for "Goodnight, my love. I hope you sleep well"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

😈Corrupt-a-Wish: I wish Arthur Shelby would pay readers rent because they are a little short this month.😈

Requested by @queenoftheworldisdead

(Side note: the lack of Arthur Shelby gifs is disappointing)

A third knock and Lionel answers his door. His left eye is dark with bruises and his shirt collar is crooked and reveals marks of further injury. It’s unexpected. He’s usually well-dressed and even better kept. A rather ironic appearance as he manages most of the slums on the lower end of Birmingham.

“Madam,” he greets you with an even more unusual tone of deference, “how can I help you this evening?”

“I’ve come to speak about the lease again,” you admit guiltily, “I’ve got nearly enough tips to break even now and I’ll have the last of it tomorrow–”

“No need, madam,” he lifts a hand a winces, “it’s even.”

“What?” you murmur, “what do you mean?”

“I’ve received payment, madam, your lease is settled for the next year,” he says as he presses his hand to front of his undone vest, “I’m very sorry if I’ve been unkind and if I seem short now. Please understand, I must retire, madam.”

“Are you unwell?” you shake your head at your own inane question, “pardon, sir, what I mean is, what happened to you?”

“I… fell,” he says stiffly, “those stairs on the east side of the building, I’ve known they’ve needed repair for some time. It is my own neglect.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” you utter, “would you like me to make you some tea? Have you eaten?”

“Please, madam, you’re too kind, especially when I’ve not earned it. You have a good night,” he says as he leans heavily on his door and groans. 

He slowly closes it and you wonder at the unusual encounter. Lionel Drussard is not one for forgiveness or even humility. He is entirely a different man, and for more than just the bruises. Never once has he wished you a good night or offered any forgiveness on your let. In fact, he was certain to remind you almost every night.

You shrug. Likely, he’d change his mind by the morning and be hounding you for your hard-fought tips tucked into the lining of your jacket.

You carry on down the block to your building on the corner, you see the embers of a cigarette hovering in the shadows beside your door on the second story.

You clutch your bag tighter, ready to fend off whatever vagrant awaits you. You come up, keys in hand, a jab to the ribs tends to send them off running. As you near, the figure stands straight and you see him clearer in the slicer of moonlight peeking past the eaves.

"Mr. Shelby," you greet, your surprise plain as you suppress your unease. 

You rarely see him outside the bar he owns, the very one you work at, that you'd just then come from. You didn't think much on his absence that day, he's often up to some business or the other with his brothers, whether in a booth calling for whiskey or otherwise. 

"Oi, sorry," he quickly blots out his smoke, "you workin' late, got a bit restless."

"Mhm," you hum softly, "well, they needed help setting up for the night. You know day shift isn't too busy."

"Yeah, don't I?" He says.

You force a smile. You know better than to ask a Shelby what he wants so the mystery of why he's there remains. You shiver and your keys jingle loudly.

"You cold?" He crosses his arms, "bloody chilly, eh?"

You ponder his question and nod. His implication, his invitation is plain. Your livelihood is in his temper. Thus far, you're of the few who've yet to stoke it.

"Tea?" You croak past a gulp, "might take some time, my stove isn't very reliable."

"Sure," he accepts, his tone frighteningly eager. 

He's sweet to you sure but your skirts help with that. He's not as sweet to men. You've seen what he does to men, how he leaves them in the gutter.

You turn and unlock your door, fumbling as you focus on the simple task. You finally get past the groaning hinges and he follows you inside. You hang the ring on the wall and feel around on the small table just by the frame. 

You light the old oil lamp and an amber glow cast behind the foggy glass, tinged black at the edges from use.

"Lamps are all blown," you explain nervously as you wave out the match.

'No matter," he says as he wipes his soles on the woven mat.

He watches you slip your jacket off and hook it on a peg. He puts his over yours, his knuckles raw and red. There's a trace of alcohol on him but not so heavy as usual.

"Stove still works," you back away and swivel hesitantly on your heel. 

You sense him watching you as you weigh the kettle in your hand and set it on the burner. He brings over the match box, surprising you before you can think to fetch them.

"I ain't intruding?" He asks.

You shake your head and take out a match. Your hands want to tremble at his closeness but you steady and light the flame. You pull away as the match wisps to black smoke, nearly singing your fingertips as the stove catches.

"You real gentle, eh?" He says, "quiet and all that."

"I suppose," you answer as you toss the match in the small tin you keep on the counter. He gives you little space to do so.

"You don't say much. Only when you're bringing out drinks, huh? Don't say nothing about money…"

"Mr. Shelby?" It's more a question though you want it to be a warning.

"Nothing, really, we just talked," he leans on the counter, his eyes crease as he smiles, his mustache tickling his cheeks, "least I could do."

"Talked?" You eke out, "sir, I saw Mr. Drussard--"

"And what did he say?" Arthur tilts his head and you flinch as he touches the pale white of your blouse sleeve.

"Do I need to tell you?" You step away with affront, "I… you shouldn't have hurt him. I don't like it."

He frowns and stands straight. 

"But… I did it for you, love," he takes a step.

"That makes it so much worse," you try to evade him but find your back to the wall, "please, I think you should leave."

"I've not had my tea," he dares to play with the lacy edge of your pointed collar, "'sides, I was expectin' some sort of thank you."

"Mr. Shelby," you look down at his hand playing with your blouse, the hand you've seen wreak destruction on others much more fearsome than you.

"Call me Arthur, love, or Art," he plants his other hand next to your head, looming over you as the scent of cigarettes and whiskey lace his hot breath, "I wanna hear you say it."

You gape at him and his eyes trace the shape of your lips. You swallow as he plucks a button open. The kettle begins to softly shake and so do you.

"Arthur," you whisper, "please…"

[oklcmc]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀،̲،̲⠀⠀⠀𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 [𝟏𝟖+]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀゛⠀So I’m askin’ God for help，⠀⠀⠀Lord， I’m just a G and I need her，I didn’t treat her the way that she was meant to be treated ‘cause Lord，I did her wrong and she’s gon’ leave!⠀〟

໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝․․⸝⸝꒱ྀིა summary：⠀⠀⠀‘’⠀⠀⠀in which the ultimate mistake of fezco’s life leaves him vexed and instead seeking refuge in a recurring dream with a once responsive illusion of his grandmother.⠀⠀⠀‘’

໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝․․⸝⸝꒱ྀིა word count：6，502

໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝․․⸝⸝꒱ྀིა pairing：fezco ❪conor angus cloud hickey❫ ✕ black!dentistry undergraduate!female oc ❪taylour dominique paige❫

໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝․․⸝⸝꒱ྀིა forewarning：this imagine will contain use of drugs and alcohol，extreme angst，strong language and implicit infidelity. fluff emerges somewhere in the end. read at your own discretion.

໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝․․⸝⸝꒱ྀིა fun-size playlist：i. jagged edge - walked outta heaven，ii. tory lanez - walked out，iii. sg lewis - warm，iv. tory lanez，ashanti - a fool’s tale ❪running back❫，v. omarion - ice box，vi.  faith evans，mary j. blige - love don’t live here anymore，vii. toni braxton - talking in his sleep，viii. beyoncé - pray you catch me，x. b2k - sleepin’，xi. frank ocean - if i’m in love，xii. trey songz - made to be together，xiii. frank ocean - got the keys，xiv. justin bieber - runaway love，xv. lucky day - over，xvi. frank ocean - try，xvii. the carters - lovehappy. yes，this is sequenced!  ‹𝟹

໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝․․⸝⸝꒱ྀིა author’s note：⠀⠀⠀‘’⠀⠀⠀hello my sweet babies! i wanted to very，very quickly state that fezco’s character in this imagine is going to be sort of complex compared to the kind of light you’re probably used to him being cast in. i wanted it that way to be reminder that no one’s perfect. we all either made or are going to make mistakes in this thing called “life，” and it’s up to us to learn from and mend them just as he’s doing in this.

secondly，don’t be shy on clicking the “follow” action，sharing your critique under my work or by use of my inbox or simply reblogging it! it has been extremely tough，especially as a black author， trying to gain exposure for my craft these past few yrs with my return to this app. i’m not attempting to use this as a crutch either. i know i’m a relatively slow writer or notorious perfectionist，to put into other words，and i’ll always stand on this， but i’m extremely grateful for each and every like，reblog or follow that i’ve gained thus far! i won’t stop ‘til i’ve received my proper recognition. all of this is to say， support a black author today! not just for the month of black history，but year round! thank you so much and happy readings to you all!⠀⠀⠀‘’

East Highland · Late October

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐎𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓

⠀⠀⠀𝓣he rather hefty parts and pieces of the Graco Hadley brand 4-in-1 Convertible Crib and Changer being aureoled by the dim light of the shadeless lamp upon the 5-drawer chest on the frigid oak floorboards before him bare striking similarities to just what kind of turmoil brewed within his love life these past three months.

Dismantle.

That was merely ever the terminology that his mind could zero in on as his ocean blue eyes skimmed over the “Storage and Care” portion of the manual. Damn shame heartbreak wasn’t a part of the description. Maybe then he’d have it all together just how he’d envisioned it to be, but he instead sat slouched against the oak footboard of his King size panel bed the very second he allowed the extended piece of paper to slip from his fingertips and sweep off into the shadows of the bedroom by use of the desk fan.

His head tilted back against the footboard before his low eyelids fluttered from the effects of his three-month binge in dark liquor, Xanax and his preferred strain of indica. Normally he’d be the one supplying the addicts, but now he could sense himself progressively morphing into one and not just in an inebriated fashion.

It was evident within his lack of self-dignity, his lack of attentiveness when it came to his circle of close friends and immediate family members and even the negligence of his own former business ventures. If it weren’t revolving around them then he hadn’t really seen a point in entertaining it.

He snatched the half-empty Hennessy V.S. brand of cognac up by it’s glass handle on the floorboards next to him before going to take yet another effortless swig from it. The warm liquid came surging through his glacial system like chiseling away at a block of ice and like any passing day over the course of the past three months, he could finally feel himself come alive again, even if only for a second.

Finally, he had found the courage to move from his place on the hardwood flooring, reaching his free hand back for the perimeter of the footboard and using it in assistance to hoist himself up on his own two. His body swayed with his turn as he faced towards the bed in which his 13-year-old brother, Ashtray had then rested upon.

He had drifted off in the midst of lecturing his only legal guardian and luminary on just what kind of negative impact he bought upon him and those around them in the span of the last three months yet again. If it weren’t about the sales plummeting in their local convenience store or illegal drug distribution due to no one taking him seriously at his age then it was about his best friend, Rue Bennett’s relapse and if it weren’t about that then it were about him being a better support system then he’d ever be due to the fact he’s the only one still allowed to keep in close contact with the mother of his child these days. Ashtray was mainly running this shitshow himself, and what did the expecting father have to say for himself? Nothing.

Though the feelings that Ashtray were vocally expressing to him were probably logical, it had only been flowing through one ear and out the other as he guzzled more liquor. This wasn’t the him that mostly everyone grew to love, but a hallow shell of what was.

Nevertheless, he still found the courtesy to yank his comforter over his resting sibling after an exhausting twenty-hour shift at the convenience store before staggering his way over to his chest of drawers to retrieve his pack of Black & Mild Cigars, Butane torch and the 4D ultrasound photo of him and his baby mother’s 36-week-old offspring that he received through Ashtray. With these items, that including his preferred brand of cognac, he found himself stumbling his way into the only room within the townhome that still seemed forbidden to step into, and that was his Grandmother Kitty’s bedroom.

There was an unexplainable draft whisking the air. Something similar to that of his heart which still hadn’t failed to make the hair on the nape of his neck rise.

The only light being emitted was from the floor lamp crammed into the corner next to her hospital bed. The only sound being generated were from the machines keeping her afloat.

He swore he hated to see her in this vegetableesque state. He wanted someone to converse with this late at night without passing judgement. Someone who would be straight forward with him about his wrongdoings without a tactic following soon after. That someone was Grandma Kitty.

The floorboards croaked with each step he took further inside the rather dim room in order to reach her bedside. One clumsy miscalculated step ended with drops of Hennessy staining the fabric of her quilt and his forest green cable knit sweater as his closed fists sunk into the side of the mattress in which she rests upon in order to prevent further damage.

Sure, the bed had shifted over an inch or two from it’s initial placement, but no harm had truly been done. You could always leave it up to him to be dishing out apologies though.

“I’m sorry, grandma,” He slurred, his chin tucking into his chest as tears whelmed in the brim of his eyes. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry!”

He couldn’t quite comprehend how he reached this breaking point within his life or how it begun even. Things that were ranked at an all-time high in his serotonin were suddenly beginning to plummet rather vastly and now he was left to apologize for things he genuinely had no control over. The spill, coming to his grandmother’s aid a second too late when she collapsed in the bathroom at ten years old and even the events that took place leading up to the breakup with his long-term girlfriend dated back only three months ago. It all hit the fan at once and he had no idea on how to stop the blades from turning this time around. It was time he faced the music.

Feeling less than empowered as a man for finally casting his emotions over his grandmother, he found himself scampering his way to the opposite side of the bedroom where a window resided, leaving behind the 4D ultrasound photograph of his offspring.

The thought of it was nonexistent, even when he went to place all the items left cradled in his arms, that excluding the pack of Black & Mild cigars, on the overbed table responsible for holding his grandmother’s medication before he snatched the rather thick fabric of the drapes of her window back.

Lightning branched across the murky night sky, illuminating the small town of East Highland in it’s hues of purple and blue, a roll of thunder following shortly after it’s initial appearance. Torrential rain commenced, tapping at the rooftop of their townhomes as his tears mirrored that emotion.

“Why so blue, Snowflake?” Her Italian Harlem drawl ran as deep as he last remembered it to bed as an adolescent.

He wasn’t at all startled by this, more so comforted as the overfamiliar sound of her continuously striking her thumb against the wheel of a Zippo brand lighter until it ignited added on to his nostalgia. The blaze guided his gaze in the direction of where an young phantom of Marie O’Neil— Grandma Kitty, if you will— rested. She took the place of her elder vegetableesque equivalent on the hospital bed, one leg propped up even in her typical attire of business casual flare leg pant suits, cotton button-ups and bloody stiletto pumps. Now that was the Marie O’Neil he knew.

The pungent aroma of nicotine laced the air. The smell had always lingered there, no matter how many times he’d attempt to try and smother it with Febreeze brand air freshener. It became another faint memory that he and Ashtray had grown immune to with each passing day. 

“I fucked up...” He finally owned up to the reason he was in that position to begin with, his forehead gently falling against the frigid windowpane just as another bolt of lightening split the night sky, this time reflecting against his porcelain skin.

“Okay, so you stuck your dick in someone and thought you wouldn’t end up with a baby,” Marie sputtered on her cigarette in her usual unapologetic demeanor until she went to pull back from it and hunch her shoulders. “Big deal. You know I’ll take care of it for you.”

“No, grandma,” He simply shook his head, recollecting all the outcomes of his grandmother correcting his wrongdoings for him in the past. There was nothing she could say or do that would reverse this. It was his to undo. “This is... It’s so much deeper than that.”

“Intrigue me.”

“Guess who passed their midterm Biochemistry exams?!” Zhané Richardson, better known as “Bébé,” an dentistry undergraduate and expecting mother, busted through the steel doors of her newly purchased luxurious estate. Clad in her muave medical scrubs, the gift of a pink Christian Dior Book Tote she received from her high school sweetheart which was now responsible for keeping her MacBook Air and textbooks, swinging from her forearm alongside her Pandora brand charm bracelet and more vivacity than she assumed she would have after an eight-hour course at only a solid six months.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒⠀⦂⠀* ZHANÉ ⅋ FEZCO’S⠀╱⠀crib.

She posed with amusement, one foot remaining planted on the doormat outside while the other remained planted on the zebra print entrance rug inside as she held on to the door’s handle for support with a goofy smile playing on her full lips, just anticipating her boyfriend or his baby brother’s greeting, but nothing to her dismay.

That’s weird, she thought, sitting upright before going to step further inside and shutting the door behind her. She could’ve sworn she seen his car parked out in the driveway.

“I knew I would! I told you guys I would!” She babbled gloatingly, slipping out her Nike Air Max Plus “Atlanta’s” and neatly placing them aside before going to step down the short set of steps to access the open living room area where she’d carelessly fling her designer bag onto the shrink wrapped love seat alongside the jacket of her scrubs. “Bring out the sparkling wine! It’s time to celebrate! Oh, and sense you guys did help me with my studies, dinner’s on me tonight! No ifs, ands or buts about it, Fez! I think the baby wants ramen.”

Hearing no calculated objections from her partner as she normally would whenever she offered to pay for something, Zhané continued her lap throughout the first floor of the home, thinking she’d come up on a surprise of some sort, but she instead stood in the middle of the custom kitchen with her hands atop of her growing stomach.

This had to have been some type of practical joke being played by the two. It wasn’t often that it happened nowadays, especially with her being pregnant, but she could sense it coming a mile away.

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” She huffed, her irritation becoming more evident as she once again waddled past the family room and formal dining room areas in order to reach the L-shaped staircase that would lead her way to the second floor where the master bedroom was and the straight staircase that would lead her to the lower level where the recreation room was. “Babe?! Ash?! Where are you two?!”

Although the recreation and fitness rooms were often occupied by the two when it came to a friendly competition of billiards going down or even blowing off stem while pumping iron, Zhané’s intuition routed her up the L-shaped staircase on account of the eerie silence that followed shortly after her calling. The house was almost ever this quiet in the evening time which raised her suspicions even more.

Zhané had reached the second level of the house cradling her stomach with merely an ounce of oxygen left in her petite frame to continue further on down the mezzanine leading to the ajar double doors of her bedroom. It seemed as though the more her dark brown feline eyes zeroed in on her destination, the more it’d seem to distance itself away from her.

The sun began to set over East Highland through the foyer windows to the left of her which had only made it easier for Zhané to make out the silhouettes moving in sync through the flickering candlelight striking against the right flush door of her bedroom. Their panting was damn near deafening as she moved with stealth towards the door way, each step she took across the plush carpet left an temporary imprint. Tears whelmed up in the brim of her eyes, her throat tightening around her airway, making it almost impossible to breath as she went to push the doors open to reveal another woman besides herself mounted in her man’s lap, in her brand new bed and all she could bring herself to utter was a single name.

“Fezco...”

“... She’s been gone for three months now, grandma. She cut all physical contact from me completely. I call, text, send gifts and even drop by the school every now and again, but she still rejects me. I mean, I get a few photos and letters through Ash sometimes, but it doesn’t compare to actually havin’ her wit’ me. I’m tired of not being able to come home to hear her voice or being able to kiss her. I feel like a child that’s lost at seven!” Fezco exclaimed, circling the armchair by her bedside before going to fall back in it with a slump.

His grandmother laughed softly, watching her grandson fidget with the carton of Black & Mild cigars he had within his grasp for a bit before he proceeded to open them, slip one out, lazily place it between his chapped lips and politely signal for her to ignite it for him which she obliged to do so.

“Sounds like you’ve been bitten by the love bug, Snowflake,” The cigarette still burned between Marie’s fingertips as she went to pick a piece of lint from her tongue. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Hell yeah,” He answered without hesitation, smoke escaping his nostrils. “I can’t picture my life without her. This is a woman I’d lay down my life for, her and our unborn child.”

“Well while you sound so confident within yourself, I’m not your fairy godmother. I can’t just wave an magic wand over your head and expect for things to revert back to normal. I very well wish that I could, but Snowflake, this is reality. You’re going to have to get with Zhané face-to-face and tell her how you really feel.”

“How am I suppose to do all that when all she does is pull away?” Fezco sighed out, rubbing his fingertips along his thumping forehead.

“Fezco, if it’s meant to be then she’ll come around and she’ll forgive you.”

With this advice, Marie O’Neil stood up from her spot on the bed and planted a gentle kiss upon her grandson’s aching forehead before making an exit from the bedroom, leaving him alone to relish in that very thought yet again.

The overfamiliar and repetitive buzzing of an silenced iPhone located within the kangaroo pocket of his Karl Kani brand hoodie caused the ginger to peel his heavy eyelids open from a recurring dream.

He sluggishly went to sit upright in the armchair situated at his grandmother’s bedside; briefly rubbing his eyes in closed fists before going to stretch his arms above his head although the ache of being hunched over in an uncomfortable position for such a long period of time was still evident within his lower back. As if that weren’t enough, his head still pounded and his mouth had almost immediately ran dry as a result of his hangover.

He fished through the pocket of his hoodie in order to retrieve the active cellular device. He squinted his watering eyes and batted his full lashes at the beaming screen until they finally focused in on the caller ID.

Bébé.

His heart palpitated and his palms had broke into a cold sweat at the full-screen live photograph of him and his long-term girlfriend sharing an affectionate kiss in the master bathroom of their new home just a few months ago, a photograph he hadn’t seen in several months. He had premediated this very moment so many times before that he ran out of the right words to say once going to accept the incoming call on the last buzz.

“Zhané?! Bébé, I’m here! Everything alright?!” Fezco greeted with panic laced within his drawl.

“Uh, hello! B-Bonjour! Is this... Freshco?” The smart remark he was preparing himself to hear blare through the transmitter from his girlfriend had turned into a masculine voice greeting him in their broken English instead.

“It’s Fezco, man. Who’s this? Why do you have my girl’s phone? Where is she?” Fezco spoke calmly though his nerves were shot to hell as he stood up from his grandmother’s bedside and went to raid the kitchen area for his desert eagle and car keys.

He was never too trustworthy with new people entering Zhané’s life, especially ones he never even met. He was planning to make an example out of what would happen with this one had he stepped out of bound during this conversation that they were holding.

“My apologies. I Pierre, Zhané doula.”

Zhané had been fixated on natural childbirth, midwives and doulas since her first trimester when Fezco gifted her some Pregnancy & Care books from Barnes & Noble alongside that expensive Christian Dior brand tote she used for dental school and charm bracelet to put her mind at ease some when everyone else, including her parents, assumed she was being dense for actually falling through with an unplanned pregnancy with someone of his caliber. “Trailer Park Trash,” is what they’d call him and his baby brother often, but it hadn’t phased him. Not even once. He remained respectful whenever they’d come around and made sure that Zhané hadn’t held a grudge towards them because of it. “You only get one set of parents, Bébé,” Is what he’d say through her fits to get her to actually look at the bigger picture. He never thought she’d actually fall through with it, especially with a male doula, at that.

“I thought only woman do that shit?” Fezco scratched at his buzz cut with the barrel of his gun, trying to make sense of it all until it registered in his mind of who this call was actually pertaining to. “Wait, what’s wrong with Zhané and the baby?!”

“I won’t exactly say anything wrong, but she insist for me not to call parent, so that where you come in. She in labor after you friend, uh, Ruby Bennett? Make unexpected visit at le house? Moi guess she come in handy because she le one who inform me. I must urge you to get here soon as possible, ‘cause... Moi no think she can hold much longer.” His warning was soon followed by a bloodcurdling scream that had Fezco practically yanking the device away from his ear while simultaneously batting his full lashes in disbelief that a sound like that was even capable of emitting from another human being.

“What do you mean ‘Much longer?!’ You couldn’t call me any sooner than this?! You mean to tell me that she’s having it there?!”

“If you mean home then... oui!”

“Alright, man. You just make sure that she doesn’t bring my child into this world without me being present. I’m on the way.”

“I try my best. Hurry, and please drive safe!”

Hearing the overfamiliar beeps of a call ending on his smartphone, Fezco tucked his desert eagle in the waistband of his black pants and his phone and car keys back into the pouch of his hoodie. He treaded to the back of the townhome, this time to wake Ashtray with a few light slaps to his face.

“What, you asshole?!” Ashtray groaned, his slit eyebrows knitting together in irritation while his eyes remained shut.

“Ash,” Fezco rattled his baby brother’s body until witnessing his eyes peel open. “Ash, it’s time. Zhané’s having the baby.”

Echolocation became pivotal at that given moment in Fezco’s life. He became reliant on the continuous swooshing resonating off the high-mast lighting poles planted on either side of the deserted highway and the tires of his Dodge Charger Hellcat gliding against the sleek road, draining in through the parted windows rather than the state of his own subconscious as he pressed his foot on the pedal of the gas to accelerate.

The waxing gibbous moon, the forewarning of a speed limit and even the clouds of smoke cascading from his Black & Mild had only became specks in his tunnel vision. Lucky Daye’s “Over” playing at a low volume over the stereo had set the tone for the night and was drawing him right back into a shameful recollection of his girlfriend once again.

There was no other terminology besides mortified to describe Fezco’s emotions in that moment as he stood in the middle of their master bedroom, surrounded by sealed cardboard boxes in only a pair of boxer briefs as he restrained the love of his life while his fling made a run for it. In all their years of dating had Fezco seen Zhané so upset over a situation and it frightened him, but only because he was oblivious on how to annihilate her temper though it was logical. Selfish as it may sound, this couldn’t be where it ended.

“Let go of me, Fezco!” Zhané shouted through a weep, her legs flailing in midair as her overlay simultaneously went digging into his forearms which were tightly wrapped around her underbust.

“Not until you calm your ass down! You’re not gonna put my child’s life in fuckin’ jeopardy over some petty shit, real talk!” Fezco bellowed.

“You choose now to be fuckin’ concerned about us?!” She sneered through a laugh, still struggling to break past his restraint until she took notice to how he wasn’t budging and finally broke down in his arms. “I promise I’m not going to do anything, Fez, just please let go. I need to catch my breath...” She wept.

Her plead had almost sounded like a double entendre to him as he hesitantly went to turn her loose.

He watched her movements intently as she sat upright from her previous position and went to smooth out the new wrinkles within her uniform before facing him with a soft expression plastered on her face. Even through fresh tears, Fezco thought she was beautiful.

“I never meant to hurt you, Bébé—” His cliché apology was cut short when her hand went flying across his face, ‘causing his head to whirl in a totally different direction. He could sense that one coming.

“Fuck you!” She croaked through clenched teeth, a hard swallow and violent shove following soon after.

“Okay, I deserved that,” He nodded, peering back into her glossy eyes. “Can you at least give me a chance to explain myself?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my breath. It won’t change the fact that you’re a cheater or the fact that I’m leaving your sorry ass.” Her words were venomous, seeping into his nervous system and turning his body rigid with panic by the second.

She turned her back on him yet again, but not before he went to grab ahold of her wrist.

“Don’t walk out on me, Bébé...” His voice quaked with desperation, causing her to be overcome with stillness. She had almost felt sorry for him until reflecting on the fact that he was in their bed with another woman besides herself not even a few minutes ago. 

How pathetic, she thought.

“I said let... Go... Of... Me!” She grimaced, snatching away from him before going to carry out her failed plan from earlier.

Zhané bought the sputnik chandelier and track lighting of the walk-in closet to life by use of a switch before entering with raging fury in search of her Louis Vuitton Virgil Abloh Monogram Mirror keepall with Fezco hot on her trail. Only she’d know he wasn’t going to give up on her that easy.

“Y’know, you can be really self-absorbed sometimes, Zhané.” Fezco stood on the opposite side of the closet’s island, watching as she struggled to grab one of her keepalls from the top cubby though she shouldn’t have been reaching above her head to begin with. He knew just as much as she did, but he wasn’t about to expedite the process of her departing from him by volunteering to help her. He was hoping that his words would do all the damage control needed. He was desperate enough to say anything to get her to stay and work it out.

“As if I don’t have every right to be, Fezco,” She mocked, absentmindedly tossing any item belonging to her inside the open bag. “Spare me the excuses. I think I’ve had enough of those for one night.”

“I just don’t understand why you’d want to throw a good thing away. Everything we worked so hard for. A better life for Ash, a better life for us,” He approached her, reaching for the bag clenched within her hands. “I can’t let you leave like this, Bébé.”

“Then you fuckin’ leave, Fezco!” She shouted, her bottom lip quivering as she shoved the bag into his chest. “I can’t stand the sight of you right about now! You make me sick! Just pack your shit and go!”

“If that’s what it’s going to take to gain your trust back again then so be it.”

“Good! Leave your key on the kitchen counter when you’re through.” With these words exchanged, Zhané exited that closet a woman scorned.

“What’s got you zoned?” Ashtray questioned from the passenger seat, reeling Fezco back in from his flashback.

“Family feud, man,” Fezco drawled, shaking his head. “Just family feud...”

Fezco and Ashtray had both successfully managed to storm the estate they were once allowed to call their “New home,” a quarter past one o’clock in the morning with their hearts in their mouths. To say that they were apprehensive about coming a second too late to the arrival of their daughter or niece was an understatement. To make matters even worse, Rue was right there anticipating theirs.

“I ain’t got time for your shit tonight, Rue! I’m dealing with enough as is. Whatever you’re lookin’ for, you ain’t gon’ find it here.” Fezco had only glanced over at the teenager he called “Family” as they rushed towards the staircase.

Frantic and clad in her usual attire consisting of an oversized graphic T-shirt, wrinkled slacks, solid black crew socks and a pair of tatted Converse. Rue was sweating profusely, her disheveled hair clinging to the pasty flesh of her face and neck while her eyes were damn near sinking into her skull as her lengthy arms hugged at her petite torso tightly.

She was going through drug withdrawals and destroying everything within her path in order to get her next fix. Zhané just so happened to get hit in the crossfire. Never mind the nativity of her own God daughter.

“Listen, Fez, all I need are a couple oxies to get me through the night and I promise, I’ll be out you and Bébé’s hair for good. I’m so sick, Fez! Look at my eyes, Fez! I need something! My mom and Gia have been drivin’ me up a fuckin’ wa—” Rue babbled belligerently, her clammy hands flailing every which way during her speech as Fezco had only halfway listened. She knew he had heard enough when he had turned to face her once reaching the second floor of the house.

“I just said that I don’t have it, Rue! God damn! What are you not getting?!” Fezco shouted, his face softening shortly after as he pointed in the opposite direction than what they all were walking in. “Go home, Rue.”

“Okay...” She whimpered, gripping onto the glass baluster, and it had almost sounded convincing to him. “Make it opiates and we have a deal.”

Damn, was she an hell of an actress.

“Ahh!” Him and Ashtray exhaled deeply before continuing their journey to the open master bedroom at the end of the hall with the addict hot on their trail.

The sporadic bursts of screeches and heavy panting resonating from their destination caused for them to pick up their feet quicker in order to get there.

Fezco, being the first to split the bedroom door, rushed past the crammed powder room and walk-in closet area leading to the master bathroom in the nick of time to witness Zhané hunched over the perimeter of the raised platform Jacuzzi bathtub in only a pink Nike brand sports bra and her usual worn knotless box braids thrown up into a messy bun. Even with the windows cracked open to circulate some type of air and a glass of ice at her side, beads of sweat still formed at her hairline and the curve of her discolored lips all the while her usual bronze complexion had become far more pasty than Rue’s. She had been in active labor for going on five hours now thanks to her and had finally felt the urge to want to push.

“Bébé—” Three months without seeing her and all Fezco wanted to do was comfort her in her time of need, but all of that was halted once an unfamiliar face came into view.

Pierre Louis was an artist and doula deriving from Nice, France whom Zhané had met while doing her monthly grocery shopping at the local Whole Foods Market. Who would’ve thought that a simple lesson on the benefits of consuming dairy while pregnant on the same aisle would draw them this close?

He was model thin, standing at an intimidating 6′0″ with dewy skin, shoulder-length locs, oversized ears and a chiseled jawline, charming smile and bedroom eyes that most would’ve died for! He was the epitome of a work of art. No wonder Zhané dug his vibe so much.

“Freshco, is it?” Pierre inquired, sticking his hand out.

“It’s Fezco, man,” Fezco corrected, grabbing a hold of his hand before giving it a firm shake. “I’m not sure what y’all got going on, but I’m just here to check in on my lady.”

“Oui, of course—”

“Keep that cheating son of a bitch and dope fiend away from me!” Zhané managed to shout through a contraction.

“Woah!” Ashtray gasped from behind Fezco, cocking a slit brow at Zhané‘s new demeanor while Rue’s face twisted in it’s usual animated fashion whenever shit was going left in her life, now being the perfect example.

“That’s not fair, Zhané. That’s my baby just as much as it is yours!” Fezco shouted, attempting to push his way inside the room, but Pierre had stopped him from doing so at the sound of Zhané straining.

“Please! She go through a lot right now! Bébé crowning!” Pierre exclaimed, pushing at Fezco’s solid chest until he was standing on the opposite side of the threshold with his family again. “We no want to cause her anymore stress, so just wait here ‘til I tell you we finish, oki?”

“Whatev—” Fezco was cut short with the door being slammed in and locked in his face. “Want me to call the ambulance?!”

No response.

“I think I’m gonna be sick!” Rue heaved, clutching at her churning stomach yet again.

“Go sit your ass down, Rue!” Fezco bellowed, shoving the small waste basket sitting beneath Zhané’s vanity into her chest before dragging her frail body out into the open space of the bedroom and forcing her down into the zebra print chaise lounge as she began hurling up her guts. He had, had enough of her antics for one night.

He fell back onto the ottoman in front of the chaise with his pounding head falling into his hands while Ashtray fell back onto the neatly made King size bed before whipping out his iPhone.

“Ay, this the same bed you fucked that bitch on?” Ashtray inquired, his eyes remaining glued to the screen of his iPhone.

Fezco kissed his teeth, picking his head up to glare over at his baby brother with animosity.

Really? At a time like this?

“What?!” Ashtray exclaimed with his shoulders hunched.

“And if it was?” Fezco shot back in a monotone cadence.

“Then I don’t want to be lying in it.”

“You already are...”

Though fabricated, Ashtray kissed his teeth and wasted no time standing up from the bed and going to sit in the desk next to it instead.

Bloodcurdling screaming and the occasional encouraging “Push!” emitted from the bathroom often. They adapted to it rather vastly though Fezco would still find the urge to want to go knock and see if everything was copacetic, but then there was Rue, even in her ill state, reminding him that it was best to let Pierre do his job.

Five minutes of impatiently bouncing his legs had turned into ten minutes of pacing the carpet and after an additional and much-needed 15-minute smoke break out on the balcony, Fezco could no longer contain his apprehension.

“Ash, you’re the closest person to Bébé right now besides that fake ass Basquiat in there. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go see what’s happenin’?”

“Man, I ain’t going to look at that shit!” Ash remarked, nonchalantly flicking his wrist in his older brother’s direction as he leaned on the back legs of the hardwood chair that he was situated in. “I got a weak stomach as is. We all better off waiting out here if you ask me.”

Of course, he of all people would say this.

The door to the bathroom creaked open and out walked Pierre, wiping his wet hands off with a hand towel, causing all three of the occupants left in the bedroom to stand at his attention for the report on Zhané they were about to receive.

“Zhané deliver healthy six-pound bébé girl!” Pierre announced, causing them all to verbally rejoice.

“C-Can we see her now?” Fezco asked, clasping his hands together before bringing them up to his pursed lips.

“Oui!” Pierre responded, extending his hand out towards the open bathroom door. “I go make phone call now!”

Prior to giving birth to a healthy six-pound baby girl, Zhané was unfulfilled by all the turmoil that was transpiring within her life. There was Fezco’s affair debacle followed by her snobby parents’ consistency of wanting to see her fail rather than succeed in life and to make make matters worse, her grades in dental school were beginning to slip.

It all came at her so fast that she didn’t know when to slam on breaks until Pierre entered her life with clarity. He was heaven sent, constantly reminding her that this too shall pass, and it had. The sight of her baby girl; petite, red-headed with light eyes and speckles covering her tawny skin from head to toe was most rewarding. The very sight of her drove her to tears. Though what Fezco had done to them was unforgettable, Zhané had no reason to hold animosity towards anyone anymore, not even her own parents. She felt she had a reason to live again.

Seeing Zhané still situated in the tub, admiring her greatest creation of all, Fezco lightly tapped his knuckles against the bathroom door in order to garner her attention before he, Ashtray and Rue entered.

“Hi.” Zhané greeted the trio gutturally, twitching a smile in their direction as tears stained her flushed cheeks.

“Hi.” They all responded in unison, Rue extending a weak wave.

“Are y’all going to continue standing at the door or are you going to come meet her?” She giggled.

They gravitated towards her, some being slower than others, just to get a look at the newest edition of their family.

“You wanna hold her?” Zhané asked, glancing up at Fezco whom had his clammy hands tucked within the front pockets of his pants.

“Oh... N-Nah,” Fezco quickly shook his head, glancing down at his Air Jordans. “I’ll probably drop her.”

“It’s your daughter, Fezco. Don’t be ridiculous,” She nudged her head at the empty platform next to the tub. “Sit.”

Fezco obliged, sitting on the platform before holding his hands out for his daughter’s arrival. It seemed surreal that she was finally here.

Zhané placed the swaddled infant into her father’s arms, adjusting her head into a more comfortable position.

The very moment Fezco laid eyes on the yawning infant was the moment he discovered the true definition of love again. The feeling of wanting to guard someone with your life’s dependency and also get your act together while doing so though you had only met their acquaintance less than a few minutes ago came full circle. He just couldn’t believe they both made something this beautiful.

“You did great, kid. She’s beautiful,” Fezco cast his emotions unapologetically, batting away a few tears, causing them to drip onto the receiving blanket that she was wrapped in. “Just like her momma,” He looked to Zhané who gave him an empathetic smile in return. “Bébé, I’m so—”

“I know, Fez...” The truth of the matter was that Zhané had some apologizing to do herself, but she didn’t want to take this moment away from their child. After all, it was her special day. “Let’s just focus on her for now. She’s going to need that more than any of us.”

Fezco simply nodded in agreement, leaning in to peck her lips to which she hadn’t protested against him doing so though she could distinguish the Black & Milds lingering on his lips. That was yet another discussion for a later time.

“Damn, Bébé, your genes didn’t stand a chance!” Ashtray commented, causing laughter to commence between each and every individual in attendance.

“Oh, hush, Ash!” Zhané giggled, going to adjust the pink cap on the resting infants head, causing her to slightly stir in her sleep. “She needs a name...”

Fezco reflected on the recurring dream he had of his grandmother earlier in the night and took it as a sign.

“We’ll call her Marie... Little Marie O’Neil.”

Zhané understood the gravity of the situation and hadn’t questioned it, but instead embraced it.

“Marie... I think she’ll grow into that one perfectly. I love it, baby.”

They shared one last passionate kiss before the flashes of an ambulance truck in the distance of their estate began to cast in through the open windows of their home. They were finally back at one, only this time with some minor changes to get accustomed to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀paulo goude as 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐒

⤷ occupation：artist and zhané’s doula

[dienamights]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 𝕽𝖆𝖎𝖉 | 𝕶.𝕭𝖆𝖐𝖚𝖌𝖔𝖚 | ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯. Ⅱ

Desperate to escape the wrath of the all too powerful magick wielding Sizithian ruler, your father sends you off to wed the king of the Protectorate of Sha, upon his daunting request.

For the very first time, you set off outside of the confines of your home, traveling east to resentfully start your very unwanted life. But beyond the walls of your kingdom is more than what meets the eye.

The world you live in isn’t as peaceful as you always thought it would be, the mythical creatures whose stories you used to recall to the children of the kingdom stare you in the eye, elves, fairies and mermaids alike. It was also then that you witnessed the full capability of the dragon’s wing to summon an eclipse as it flew over the land below it. And just like all the stories you knew about; the untold tale of the dragon raid will inevitably lead to the greatest war of all.

═ 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀:  Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader

═ 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁:  3.3K

═ 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴(𝘀): mentions of blood, mentions of nausea but no vomiting lmao, also a description of a dead body

═ 𝗧𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: open

═ 𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲(𝘀): we meet baku next chapter so GET EXCITED

⤆ ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝙸

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 Ⅲ ⟾

‘The first optimistic glimmer of light in a world that has been lingering in the shadows for longer than memory, and the bravery needed to grasp for that unknown promise of brighter days, lead to escape.’

It has been a few days since your father’s approval for you to be the new queen of the Protectorate of Sha. And while you had been crying in your pillows about it every single night, you still found time to plan out your great get away with Yui.

“Your highness,” she bows when she reaches you, flushed cheeks from running all that distance with the rattling armour she wears on the daily, no matter how many times you tell her it isn’t necessary. “Prince Shoto requests your presence in the library, says he may have found something you might find useful.” she says, and you all but run back to the prince with that sorry excuse of a dress hindering your every movement.

The architecture of the space is most seen in the bookshelves. The steps are constructed first, arching like the end of a cat's tail before climbing to the first story. The bookshelves follow, constructed up along the wall, with each shelf beginning exactly next to the stairwell. It seems as if the area is built one feature at a time, with each concept building on the previous one.

The bookcases and their inky treasures decorate the tranquil room, quiet in the sense of comfortable solitude and pleasant seaside colours, soft blues, greys, and browns. The bookcase's wood appeared as if it had washed up on a beach someday, as if it had previously been a part of a vast sailing ship. Yet it now rests in its eternal home, in the lonely bay that is the corner of this room.

You look around for a moment in the vast, well-stocked library you know like the back of your hand. People are busy working away in there, examining and reading books and making extracts with such intense interest that you almost envy them for being successful in their search, though it was a generous delight seeing people so happy in their work, and a desire to associate yourself somehow in it, rather than any grudging of their satisfaction, especially when the dual haired prince waves you over eagerly- well, as eager as someone as monotone as him could get.

“Hei Nis Volaav” is what you hear when you’re within earshot of the prince, leading you to question him with an arch of your brow. “Pardon?” you ask, leaning closer to hear him again in case you were imagining things.

“That's- that's what it says, the writing on the scroll,” he slides the book closer to you to pick it up and take a closer look. “Something about an ancient language called ‘Kaarthurnax‘ from centuries ago, I was not able to get the translation for it, so this is as good as it's going to get.”

“That's… that's amazing Shoto!” Regardless of the prince’s words, you still smile at the book, placing it back on the table and sitting next to him to flip through it in awe. The pages of the book flutter in the breeze as the afternoon light shines through the glass window, the flapping creating the most lovely melody you could hear. Already your favorite; the one you could read over and over and yet want more of, even though not a single word makes sense to you. Those crumpled pages within it are like an elixir. The book had a basic earthy-colored cover that was pleasing to the eyes, comforting.

Even after all these years, it’s soft to the touch, and the edges resembled a cherished teddy bear, dog-eared pages probably marked a favorite phrase, maybe one that confessed love. Wear signs are almost nonexistent, as if someone had been as gentle with the book as they would be with a porcelain doll, despite the fact that they might have flipped through it hundreds of times . The pages within appear to have been bathed in golden rays and absorbed them, so gently radiant were they. And the letters fell into place as though by the hand of a musician, one who was used to the finer notes of beauty.

“Here, you can see those that resemble the same letters,” he pulls out your journal with the ripped piece of scroll and places it next to the book, comparing the lines and nodding before he turns the pages to show you the rest. “You think my father speaks it? He- he looked really distraught when he saw the scroll, tried to smudge away the ink,” you point out to the bleeding ink with a frown, looking up at the prince to see him do the same.

“I- I don't think so, it's a really old language, no one really speaks it aside from, well, the books says no one but mythical creatures…”

“Well, gotta get straight to the source, huh?” you mumble to yourself before you get up with a grin, slamming the book close before a puff of dust urges a cough out of you, “-talk about ancient.” Your body shivers when you hear a breathy chuckle, turning around to face the prince only to find his stoic face looking right back at you.

Bowing gratefully, you hold the books under your arm and leave the library in a haste, throwing an excuse of using the powder room as you leave the prince blinking at your retreating back, a small smile tugging at his lips before he returns the other books in their respective places silently.

With getting one puzzle piece closer to uncovering the truth, you walk purposefully to your father’s council chamber again, steps faltering the closer you get to it, worry washing over you as you recall your recent visit to it.

The first red flag you shouldn’t have overlooked is the absence of the guards, the last one you see is miles away from the door, and you turn around to question his position, before pressing your lips together and making it to the large door.

Right before you knock, you hear your mother, well, you hear her wails, her warm voice shaken to its depths as she sobs, just like a long hopeless violin, “why couldn’t you just say no?” she weeps, and you barely hold yourself from bursting in because never in your life have you heard your mother raise her voice even a pinch higher at your father.

Your father's voice - lacking sympathy, as usual, but given the way that he had raised you, you can't claim to be surprised - forces its way into your ear. “You dare question your king? You think I'm not doing this for the benefit of my people?” “Oh, you and your people!” a gasp slips past your lips at her outburst, fingers on the handle shaking in fear of what the king might do to his wife’s raised voice.

“My land, my kingdom, my people; you and I both know you’re nothing without the Emperor, like a dog chasing after his owner with his tail wedged between his legs—“ you can’t even question it, the ringing slap across your mother’s face echoes in the empty hallway, the noise of which smites sharply upon the ear, like the crack of a pistol in an alley.

Muffling your choked sob, you rest your hand on the wall to balance yourself, feeling your body burn up at the sound of your mother’s crying. Yet what surprises you is that she keeps going, no matter how loud your father gets, she screams louder.

“Silence!” His shouts reverberate against the wooden door, and the sudden urge to beat him down with the books is unavoidable, but you hold your breath at your mother’s words, biting your lip until the metallic taste hits your buds.

“This is what it is, your majesty, you’re given power, authority and a land almost as big as your ego,” his hand against the table shakes your demeanor, like a little wobbling deer taking its first steps when you back away in fear. “And the price has always been your daughter?”

The books slide from underneath your grip, and for a second, there is nothing but your panting breath and the cluttering fall of the cursed books.

“Who goes there?” Comes the angry bellow of your father, the king, and as much as you push yourself to move, gravity suddenly nails your feet to the ground as your whole body shakes in fear.

Never before have you noticed how time is similar to water in that it may pass slowly, a drop at a time, even freeze, or it can rush by you in an instant. The clock tells you it is measured and consistent, tick tock, tick tock, like a part of a well-ordered universe; but the clock lies. The last-minute has flown by like hundreds of fluttering pages every second, one by one. Your heartbeat is louder, the wind is cooler, and the colors are dimmer in this slow-time bubble. All the while, your insides feel as if there is nothing there, nothing that needs to be fed, nothing that requires anything but the need to run, run.

And so you do, you pick up the fallen books, bunch up your dress, and race time as you try to the round the corner before your father opens the door, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when the last inch of your dress passes by the wall before he tugs the door wide open, yelling and threatening as you do what you do best, round every corner, climb up and down stairs, only stopping when you make it back to your room.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your tears cloud your vision, dripping one after another on the leather book before you wipe them away with your sleeve, fighting the urge to cry out when you hear guards running past your door at the king’s call.

A few heavy minutes pass before Yui knocks on your door, an agreed pattern informing you of her identity before she peeks in with a smile when she finds you in your room. “Good news, Kaoru is fed and packed with all your necessities, ready for your-”

“I’m… I’m not leaving. They- it was all planned out...”

They say sorrow comes after anger, but anger never occurs except in direct self-defense, so perhaps you can credit your inherent passivity with your willingness to cry and suffer pain, to let the sorrow teach you more about your true nature and how fragile humans actually are.

Those that need to escape make a fantasy of it. It comes in ways that appear so playful,  it ends up being the smoke of the fire that burns within. Yet fire cares not of the time it vanishes, only that it gives heat and light at the moment, and you’re left with nothing but everlasting cold and a heart wrenching bitterness.

Mourning is the dawn before the light is brave enough to cascade over the horizon. It is the time when the colours of the world bowed in reverence to the grief, pausing, pausing... before moving on with the new day and the life that needed loving attention once more.

The seventh day's sun rises like a canopy of gold, brilliant among the blue, bidding the stars to retire for the night. As the darkness fades, every color shifts from charcoal to vibrancy. On any other day, you wonder what is offered in exchange for such heavenly magic gifts; perhaps it is love, perhaps it spreads into space, perhaps it is the link to creation beyond the limits of the world, of reality. Perhaps you, too, are made of gold, a brilliant flame that burns for another kind. That's an idea as warm as a bright new day for you, one that tickles your mind as much as your heart.

The celebration weaves the crowd together as the most magnificent of colors. Swimming through as a school of happy fish, bright in rainbow hues, converting their joy into the cheers and congrats as they call your name in triumph.

Lanterns are passed along between the townspeople are the stars made to salute the black heavens, as if shooting stars pause to light the path, nestled in the wintry boughs.

Alas, today, as you watch your mother dress herself in a gown as dark as night, sobbing into her handkerchief before she throws herself on your father’s chest to quiet herself down, fists flimsy as they pound against his chest with mumbles of blame slipping past her lips. You remember that you’re just an ember swaying in the wind, taking your last breath before you’re put out, never to see the light again.

“I’d like to say a few words,” your father says before pausing to push your mother away like a lint on his cape, silencing her wails with a hard glare you still remember as if burnt into the back of your eyelids. “I think you’ve said plenty enough, your majesty.” You bow mockingly before walking past him, wrapping your arms around your mother as she cries an apology after the other into your shoulder.

“We must take our leave,” the prince calls, back straight despite the situation he’s in, watching intently as your father turns to face you while you wipe away your mother’s tears.

“Know this,” you look down to meet your father’s gaze after getting up on the horse, grinning maliciously when he grunts. “Remember this place, because any day now, anything that the sun touches will belong to me.”

The outside world is quite astonishing, when you finally make your way out of the confines of the castle. When you first look beyond the horizon and see nature without your imagination's veil, awe comes at you, with the naked eye and the mind open to the beauty of this world. It is the baby's delight when they first see a dog or witness a leaf blow in the wind. And when you notice those little things, when you fall in love with the journey, everything brightens. The larger items become nearly overpowering, and the sensation of excitement grows exponentially. It is only then that you realize you have lived a half-life, greyed and devoid of the warmth that every human being is born with.

The trees are dancing ladies in this light that colors your skin so warmly, each in a dress more magnificent than any designer can create. They move in perfect rhythm with one another, orchestrated by the wind. They are the heart and soul of this early summer morning, and you wonder how many different shades of green you are seeing. You extend your arms up, fingers stretched toward the sun, and slowly begin to relax as they stretch upwards and outwards toward the light, soaking in rays as pure as rain.

“Your highness,” breaks you out of your trance, straightening up and running your hand through the horse’s mane with an almost annoyed hum at having your moment with nature ruined by the prince’s guard. “Prince Shoto requests you ride with him up front, if you may.” he bows his head, and you bite your lip regretfully at almost snapping at him before nodding timidly, nudging the side of the horse with a click of your tongue to speed him up until you’re next to the prince.

“Ah, your highness, thank you for joining me.” you only hum in reply, eyes darting at the beauty surrounding you. “You know, I was kind of waiting for your great escape to happen before we leave,” he looks forward as he speaks, disregarding your flabbergasted expression before you try to contain yourself. “Pardon?” “You were planning to run away, weren’t you.” It's nowhere near being a question, you blink ahead and only nod in answer, biting the inside of your cheek as the horse puffs air after slowing down.

“H-how did, how did you know?” he lets out a chuckle before replying. “You’re not exactly the best at keeping secrets, your highness…” awkwardly, you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head before the sight of the guards getting in formation to surround the two of you catches your attention.

“You, you seem to know a lot, more than you let on,” he hums, asking you to elaborate. “First of all, there's the whole thing with my plan.” “That you surprisingly didn’t go through with.” you could’ve sworn there is a teasing lilt to his voice, but you only turn to see his face as expressionless as ever.

“Right, then the whole thing with the Emperor, his relationship with my father- and don’t tell me you know nothing about them, you being intelligent and able to piece things together doesn't make me an idiot.” Only then do you turn around to marvel at your surroundings, except, what you’re faced with is nothing to awe at.

The forest that once seemed to be alive now chills you. Under the heat of the sun, your body still shakes. You pass by the muddy river that eddies as if it were hand stirred hot cocoa. The trees that sheltered so many with their spreading canopy of green and provided so much are now lifeless sticks of charcoal, no more vibrant than the old lamp-posts in the kingdom. The light illuminates the scorched ground and still that smell of burning lingers despite the light drizzling rain.

The prince hands you his cloak before you wave him away politely, showing him yours and covering your head with it as your eyes flail left and right at the scene that drastically changes in seconds. Your eyes fall on the littered gravestones that have sunk into the soft soil giving them the appearance of shrinking. The engraved words, so weathered by a century of rain, sit just above the level of the ground covering plants that sprawled over the dirt. As your horse passes by the scattered graves, you can’t help but notice the one that wasn’t entirely submerged.

Only the crown of the skull is poking above the soil, obvious signs of a poor burial. Presented as if the heavy rains have revealed it. In a week or two the leaves of fall would have covered it again and the body will rest again in its grave. Alas, curiosity nibs at you as you pass by it, the skeleton looks fresh. In some places there is a pink sheen where flesh had been newly and inexpertly removed. There are tool marks gauged into recently living bone and a round hole in the skull. At the rear the head was cleaved open with a sharp knife and it’s now hollow.

You wrap yourself in the cloak, waves of nausea adding to your misery. Your brain feels like it would swell beyond the capacity of your skull and now your stomach lurches and gurgles. you raise your heavy eyelids halfway only for them to fall shut. You pry them open again and turn away from the scene, blinking away the burning tears as you try to breathe through the nauseated feeling, only looking at the concerned prince and nodding at him to keep moving.

“That's, that's my father’s kingdom?” You all but whimper at the sight of the bruised and battered people finding shelter under the ruined buildings, looking up at you with hope that dies immediately when you pass by them. “He’s giving me up, for this?”

“I’m- I’m afraid so… all given by the emperor,”

It's been there a while now, this anger, escaping when you’re lost in your thoughts. you’re angry at your ruined childhood and dreams, angry at the lies you’ve been fed since you learned how to speak, and by god are you angry at your father. Though in a fume of hot anger, you had the good sense to choke back the first impetuous reprimand trembling on your lips, only letting yourself utter those words.

“We’ll see about that,”

⤷𝔐𝔞𝔭 ℜ𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔢

⤷ 𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔲𝔭 𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔩:𝔲𝔭𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢

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